


Unfinished Business

by StarlightAndFireflies



Series: Caffeine and Courage [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arguing, Breakfast in Bed, Coffee, Conflict Resolution, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff and Angst, Halloween, Halloween Costumes, Happy Ending, M/M, Making Up, Protective John, Romance, Tags Contain Spoilers, Teenagers, Texting, rated t just to be safe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-01-23 17:45:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12512812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightAndFireflies/pseuds/StarlightAndFireflies
Summary: Sherlock thought it was over. He’d thought it was in the past, that he and John would be fine, that he wouldn’t ever have to think about it again.He’d been wrong.





	1. Halloween Spookiness

John swept into the coffee shop and shook rain out of his hair, shuddering in relief as a wave of warm air swept over him, a strong contrast to the chill autumn air of outdoors. He breathed in the intense, intoxicating scent of coffee and pastries, then stepped toward the back of the short queue of people.

However, a minute later, he was still second in line when he heard the barista call out something that made him start and turn. 

“Large latte with cinnamon for… um, Almost Doctor John?”

He blinked and stepped out of the queue to retrieve the cup. As he picked it up off the counter with a word of uncertain thanks, the barista looked at him with a perplexed expression, which John returned for a moment before scanning the shop. He found the culprit in an instant: Tucked away in the corner near a small fireplace with an electric flame sat Sherlock Holmes, his hair a mess and his mouth curled in a smirk. 

John grinned and weaved his way through the tables to Sherlock, then dumped his bag next to the empty seat. Before he sat down, he leaned over and dropped a kiss onto the riotous curls. 

“Hello,” he said, sliding into the seat and surveying the man in front of him. 

Sherlock was still smirking. “I timed it well, didn’t I?”

John chuckled at his smug expression. “Go on then,” he encouraged. “How did you know I’d stop in here?” He raised the mug to his lips and drank. The warm coffee, flavored with just the right amount of milk and spice, warmed him to his core, and he moaned softly. “Damn, that’s delicious.”

Sherlock beamed as his hand found John’s free one and squeezed it. “You always like a warm drink after work on rainy days like this, and your shift just ended fifteen minutes ago. It’s at least a half hour on the Tube to get home, and you don’t like to wait that long for your drink when the weather’s this bad. This particular shop is one you’ve become fond of in the last few months, judging from the number of their disposable cups in our bins lately, and it’s on the way to the Tube station.” He tilted his head toward the window, through which could be indeed seen the distinctive red and blue Underground sign on the street corner.

John nodded. “And the cinnamon latte? How’d you know?”

“Well, I couldn’t exactly order you a matcha or a chai whatever-it-is, now could I? It had to be coffee.” Sherlock’s eyes glinted with mischief. 

“Oh!” John burst out, cheeks flaming. “You had to bring that up!”

“Of course,” Sherlock laughed. “I’ve got to make sure I win the bet! I know you’ll make me forfeit if I enable you!”

John huffed, tugged his hand from Sherlock’s grip, and crossed his arms. “You are a cruel, cruel man.”

Sherlock only looked disappointed that John had let go of him for a split-second, then he seemed to find the situation agreeable enough, because he took advantage of his now free fingers by picking up John’s cup and sipping from it. John couldn’t help but allow his gaze to linger on Sherlock’s lips, and then on his throat as he swallowed.

When Sherlock put down the latte, he surveyed John with a fond look in his eyes, which seemed extra blue today. “I can assure you, I’m going to win.”

John rolled his eyes. “I’ll believe it when I see it. You with your caramel mocha addiction…”

“It’s been twenty days!” Sherlock looked a bit offended. “You sound as if I have no self-control whatsoever!”

John, who had lifted his cup for another swallow, choked on the coffee and began to cough. Sherlock’s eyes flickered with concern, but John recovered after only a moment. 

“You okay?” Sherlock asked. 

“Fine,” John blinked away the moisture in his eyes. “Just… Sherlock,” he grinned. “You don’t really have much self-control. I mean, you’re the man who reduced your professor to tears in class, and another time you set the lab table on fire!”

Sherlock looked affronted. “You and I both know he was an imbecile,” he replied. “And that was a calculated decision.”

“You added rubbing alcohol, Sherlock,” John laughed. “What did you think was going to happen to that solution when you had it next to the bunsen burner?”

“That…” Sherlock pursed his lips, a sure sign John had him beat. “Is beside the point. I do have enough self-control to not eat chocolate for a month, John.”

John only lifted a skeptical eyebrow. Sherlock huffed. “Oh, as if you’ll be able to not have tea!”

“I’ll have you know,” John scowled. “I’ve done just fine.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He picked up his pencil off the table and twirled it in his long fingers. “Sure.”

John watched him for a moment as he went back to scanning through his notes. His half of the large table was scattered with papers, textbooks, pencils and pens, and a laptop. There was an empty mug perched on top of a stack of papers that were covered in complex-looking diagrams and equations. One pen, John noticed, was stuck behind Sherlock’s ear, almost hidden by his curls as though he had forgotten about it. This, for some reason, struck John as incredibly endearing. 

“How was your day?” John tested the waters eventually, when Sherlock finished scrawling a lengthy observation next to a graph in one of his notebooks.

“It was fine,” Sherlock said. He flipped open one of the textbooks to the index and scanned down the page. “I’ve almost finished this.”

It wasn’t a dismissal; John knew Sherlock well enough by now to know that was an invitation to speak as soon as the chemist completed whatever work this was. John was accustomed to this, and knew that however deep Sherlock got in his own head when he was working, he would always resurface. 

In the meantime, John took the time to sit back in his chair and survey the cafe. Sherlock had managed to claim the best spot in the place, tucked out of the way of most customers who darted in and out, and not too near the door so they were hit with cold air every time it opened. The electric fire, though not as authentic as ones they could have at home, still gave off a warmth that seemed to cocoon them. John inhaled; the scents of coffee, chocolate, bread, and tea mingled in the air around them. He sighed as he watched a barista hand a large cup to a woman, a telltale tea bag string dangling over the lip. 

_ What a stupid bet _ , John thought.  _ Who decided it would be a good idea to give up a beautiful vice like tea in autumn? It’s cold and only getting colder! _

He glanced back at Sherlock, who was now typing away at a furious pace on his laptop, brow creased. Having observed their setting sufficiently, John now contented himself with watching Sherlock. He’d grown almost half a foot two summers ago, and only just seemed to be growing into his height. He looked gorgeous, John thought. Not that he hadn’t always been gorgeous, but now, with his tall dancer-like build, John couldn’t help feeling a little starry-eyed whenever he caught sight of the man. 

“What?” 

John jerked out of his shamelessly romantic reverie to find Sherlock’s eyes on him. He wondered how long he had been staring at Sherlock, thinking. Apparently it was longer than he had thought. “Sorry, just… er, daydreaming.”

Sherlock’s cheeks colored, just a shade, and he dropped his gaze back to his work. “Well,” he murmured. “I’m almost done here.” He paused, contemplating a note he’d written, and plucked the remains of what appeared to be a piece of biscotti from his cup’s saucer. 

“Anything I can help with?” John asked as he proffered his drink to Sherlock.

Sherlock dunked the biscotti in the latte and took a bite, his brow still furrowed in that adorable way. “No, I’ll figure it out. I still have four days before I’m to turn it in.”

“You’ll get it,” John said. He took the last bite of biscotti from Sherlock and popped it into his own mouth. Sherlock nodded in a rather distracted way and flicked through his textbook. John watched him, knowing he was smiling in a stupidly fond way, but found he did not care in the slightest.

His casual observation ended, though, when he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He pulled it out and slid a thumb across the screen to unlock it. It was the reminder he had set a few days ago for an upcoming event. He was rapidly becoming the sort of too-busy-for-his-own-good person who needed phone alerts, a planner, and sticky notes all over his flat to be able to get everything he needed finished. Sighing at how old he apparently was getting, he clicked on the notification and reread the details.

“What’s that then?” Sherlock asked. John peered over the top of his phone to a reassuring sight: Sherlock had flipped his notebooks closed and was loading them and the textbooks into his bag. 

“Just a thought I had,” John replied. He gulped down the last bit of his latte and snatched up the absurd amount of pens Sherlock had brought. “I was thinking we should do something this weekend.”   
Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “We do something every weekend.”

John chuckled and shook his head as he handed over the pens. “No, I don’t mean our Netflix binging and revising and writing essays. I was actually thinking… well, this.” 

He held the phone out to Sherlock, who, upon reading what was on the screen, froze in the process of zipping up his bag. 

“You’re not serious.”

John frowned. “Oh, come on, it’ll be fun!”

“You want to go… to a Halloween…”

“Carnival, yes!” John nodded. “What’s wrong with that?”

The crease in Sherlock’s forehead grew somehow even more pronounced. He stood up and tugged the strap of his bag more securely on his shoulder. 

“John, Halloween is for children.”

John almost snorted. “No, it isn’t!” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but something in the set of his mouth told John he wasn’t entirely opposed to the idea. Sometimes, John had learned, he wanted to be convinced through debate. It was almost as if Sherlock got off on the intellectual discussions, the way they bickered and argued and teased. John didn’t complain; the longer the two had known each other, the better John got at anticipating and addressing Sherlock’s arguments. 

“Sherlock,” he began as he followed Sherlock to the door and they stepped out into the steady drizzle. They paused under the awning so John could flap open his umbrella. “We’re uni students, and yet we hardly do any mad things.”

“Such as?” Sherlock smiled. He took John’s free hand and they set off down the street. 

“Such as go to wild parties and get uproariously drunk, for one. We pass all - well, most, in my case - of our modules, we almost never go to clubs, and while we get into a bit of trouble with your cases sometimes, we don’t do anything truly  _ mad _ .”

Sherlock considered for a moment. John watched as his eyebrow quirked upward. “So what exactly about this Halloween carnival qualifies as mad?”

John bit his lip. “Well, I’m not saying this is going to be some wild extravaganza…” He swallowed. “I mean, kids can come with their parents, but… I don’t know, I just thought it would be nice to have a break from revising. We don’t have to go if you think it’s so stupid.”

He felt his heart sink. Getting out of their usual routine had sounded nice. He knew he could go without Sherlock and grab some friends instead, but somehow the thought of going without his boyfriend made him feel lonely. 

“No, it’s okay,” was Sherlock’s sudden reply, almost inaudible because of the pattering raindrops on their umbrella. John whipped his head around to stare, surprised. 

“What? Really?” 

Sherlock nodded, smiling softly at him. “I could use a break this weekend, anyway, I think. Besides…” he blushed. “It’s hard to say no to you sometimes.”

John grinned. 

 

 

* * *

 

Sherlock tried to maintain a cool, aloof exterior when he was working. He was a chemist and consulting detective, after all. Both were serious professions. 

But sometimes, even when he was trying to get work for his chemistry assignments finished in a timely manner, John would come along and blast his aloofness to nothingness. 

How could he say no, for instance, when John turned those wide blue eyes on him and asked, voice quiet and unsure, to go with him to a Halloween carnival? 

Well. There was also the fact that Sherlock secretly loved Halloween. But that wasn’t the point. 

Sherlock and John had survived these first few weeks of term, though John’s shifts at Bart’s were long and taxed his energy, and Sherlock’s schoolwork had increased markedly in difficulty. Not to mention they had moved into a new flat, one closer to Bart’s and Scotland Yard rather than out in Zone 5 of the city. This new place, which they shared, was on Baker Street, run by an old family friend of Sherlock’s, Mrs. Hudson. They had moved in their belongings at the beginning of term, but even nearly two months later, they still had unpacking to do. 

Sherlock supposed it was because of the fact that not only were they about twice as busy as they had been last term and over the summer, but now they were living together, officially. They had refrained from doing so the second year of uni, with their relationship being so new, but over this last summer had decided that perhaps it was a good time to change things. It seemed to Sherlock that this change had made them both a bit giddy.

When they’d brought the first boxes to Baker Street, Sherlock remembered, they had teased each other about who was to carry the other over the threshold. It had ended in a giggly scuffle on the first floor landing, with both of them trying to scoop the other off his feet. Of course, this had devolved to tickles and kisses, and finally Sherlock had grown tired of the debate and pressed John against the door and kissed him thoroughly enough to distract him while Sherlock unlocked the door and shoved them both inside. 

“Hey there, anybody home?” John’s voice said. 

Sherlock blinked and came back to the present. They were standing in the center of a Tube car, on the way to the festival. Other costumed people were scattered along the car as well, in amongst the side-eyeing commuters attempted to get home from work without being accosted by already tipsy Halloween merrymakers. 

“Sorry,” he said. “Just thinking.”

“And you lecture me about getting distracted lately,” John shook his head, amused. 

“You  _ have  _ been distracted,” Sherlock said. “You’re trying to do so much.”

“Well, yeah,” John nodded in sheepish agreement. “Bart’s asks a lot, even of us students. I’m learning a lot, but… it’s tiring. I just hope I get used to it soon.”

“You will,” Sherlock assured him. He shifted his grip on the bar he was holding so that his hand rested atop John’s instead. “You’ll be an excellent doctor.”

John smiled. His expression shifted to one a bit more mischievous then as he eyed Sherlock. “Have I mentioned you look amazing, by the way?”

Sherlock felt his cheeks heat. As their train passed through a darker section of tunnel, he caught sight of himself in the window’s reflection. His hair was artfully tousled, he wore black, slim-fit trousers and a deep purple shirt. He’d tracked down a deep blue scarf to use as a sash around his waist, and carried a shiny but fake sword. He had decided to forego a hat, favoring letting his curls hang loose (certainly not a decision based on the fact John seemed to have an obsession with touching Sherlock’s hair). He did, however, have an eyepatch over one eye, and wore tall black leather boots. 

“Thanks,” he said, smiling. He glanced at John, then away quickly. It was difficult to keep his gaze on his boyfriend at the moment, looking like… well, like that. 

John wore army fatigues, tan boots, but there was one major departure from proper military dress. He’d strategically left an extra button undone on his jacket, giving Sherlock a tantalizing glimpse of his neck. And the man had known exactly what that glimpse - the entire costume, really - did to Sherlock.

A knowledge he continued to prove, every few minutes in fact.

“So,” John said right on cue, a lilt in his voice that clued Sherlock in on his teasing. “You haven’t said how I look.”

Sherlock felt his face grow warm, but as the train slowed to a halt at a brightly lit station, he couldn’t check in the window to see how pink he was. “You know how you look.”

“Right, but…” John put on an affecting, faux-worried voice. “I want to know what you think of it.”

Sherlock sighed and risked another look at John, who was - damn him - biting his lip and looking up at Sherlock with wide, faux-innocent eyes. “You… you look…” he huffed and turned away again. “Positively amazing, John. You look devastating. It’s indecent.”

“Good,” John murmured, low enough that only Sherlock would be able to hear. “I knew you’d like it.”

“You know I do,” Sherlock hissed back, knowing he had to be a violent shade of red now. If he just didn’t look at John, the urge to slam him against the side of the car and snog him would  _ surely  _ fade. 

John only chuckled and took Sherlock’s hand that dangled at his side. With fingers interlaced, they spent the rest of the ride in silence. 

By the time they surfaced at the park where the Halloween carnival was set up, Sherlock felt reassured his face had regained its normal shade. John grinned at him and led him along the street with the other costumed people, following the sounds of music, laughter, and excited screams. 

They entered the carnival, which was the only illuminated area of the park at this time in the evening. Orange and green lights cast strangely hued patches on the pavement, and black-curtained tents lined the walkway. They housed games for children, such as darts, bottle tosses, or fishing. Other tents sold snacks. Sherlock could smell s’mores, caramel popcorn, and pumpkin everything. Beyond this main area of stands stood a few carnival rides. And there, nestled in among the swings and small roller coasters, were the tents that made squeamish six-year-olds shriek and flee but made teens and uni students grin and rush forward, hoping to scare their dates enough to earn an adrenaline-fueled snog. 

Sherlock wanted to make a beeline for the latter without further ado, but John tugged him toward the food tents. 

“John,” Sherlock protested feebly. He couldn’t stop himself from glancing longingly over his shoulder. 

“Hang on, love, I’m hungry,” John laughed. He bought them each a paper cone filled with caramel popcorn. As he turned back around, he raised his eyebrows at Sherlock. “I thought you weren’t eager to come?” His expression was knowing. 

Sherlock glanced down at his feet. “Well…”

“You like Halloween more than you let on, Sherlock,” John smirked. “But you don’t have me fooled.”

Sherlock smiled and took his caramel popcorn from John. “I can never really hide anything from you, John Watson.”

John’s expression softened, and as they stepped away from the food tents, he leaned up and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s cheek. “I’m glad. I wouldn’t want you to.”

They walked along, weaving between squealing and giggling children who were darting in all directions to the chagrin of their wearied parents. John forced them to stop again at a tent that promised a prize if the participant could pop three water balloons. Sherlock watched in amusement as the zombie running the game goaded and teased John until he’d wasted ten pounds trying to win. 

“John,” Sherlock finally said around suppressed laughter, putting a hand on his arm. “You need to stop. This rubbish isn’t worth that much money,” he gestured to the stuffed toys that dangled from the top of the tent. 

“Oh!” the zombie cooed. “How dare you! My wares are worth far more than this!” He lifted his eyebrows, eyes sparkling with malicious mirth. “I suppose you can’t do better at this than your army boy, can you, pretty?”

“Hey,” John frowned. “Watch who you’re calling pretty.”

Indeed, the zombie’s expression had become decidedly more flirtatious underneath all the makeup. “Come on, pretty pirate. I’ll give you a go, half price.”

Sherlock glanced between the zombie and John, whose fists were clenched. He shrugged and tugged out his wallet. “Alright then.”

He handed over the pound coin and took the three darts from the zombie’s hand. John shifted out of his way as he took up his position and lifted his arm. 

The first dart hit home, a balloon bursting water all over its fellows.

“Excellent,” the zombie crooned. “But I bet you can’t do it again.”

“I bet I can,” Sherlock winked. He raised the second dart, ignoring as the zombie burst into a sudden coughing fit in a blatant attempt to distract him. 

Pop. The second dart had burst another balloon. 

“Nice,” John kissed his cheek. “You can do this.”

“I know,” Sherlock smiled. 

“Oh, come on, no you can’t, pretty,” the zombie murmured. “You’re too pretty.”

Sherlock pulled a skeptical face. “And people are only good for their looks are they? Too bad for you, because…” he trailed off significantly, dragging his gaze up the zombie’s bloody, ripped clothes with a disgusted expression. 

He paused, breathing deeply for a moment, then grinned as he let the third dart fly, seeing the zombie’s genuinely offended look out of the corner of his eye. 

Pop!

“Yes!” John cried next to him, leaping into the air in excitement. “You did it!”

The zombie slow-clapped a few times, grudging as he gestured to the prizes overhead. “Choose one,” he said in a dispassionate voice. 

Sherlock hesitated, but John answered before he could even open his mouth.

“That one. He’ll have that one.”

Sherlock turned, startled, to see where John was pointing. Then, a smile split across his face as he watched the zombie pull down a large plush bumblebee and hand it over. John took it and offered it to Sherlock. 

Lifting it to his own chest, Sherlock turned back to the mutinous zombie. “Better luck with the next pirate, then,” he said. “Because I prefer my men living.” 

He headed off with his arm linked with John’s, the stuffed bee in his other arm. It was fuzzy and plump, a better quality than he had expected. 

“That git was awful,” John was saying. 

“You just can’t let that kind of thing get to you,” Sherlock said. “He’s paid to tease and taunt so people get flustered and make mistakes.”

“Okay, sure, but is he paid to flirt?”

Sherlock bit down on a chuckle. “Oh, that’s what you’re upset about. You know I have no interest in someone like that?”

“I know, but…” John huffed. His grip tightened slightly on Sherlock. “I don’t like people flirting with my boyfriend.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Sherlock smiled. “But thank you for picking the bee.”

John smiled back, finally. “I thought you’d like it. So where to now?”

Sherlock looked around. They were near the darker, scarier area, and a hall of mirrors stood a few tents away. Overhead, a roller coaster rocketed by, filled with laughing and screaming riders. 

“There,” he pointed with his chin at the hall of mirrors tent.

“Okay.”

They entered with a group of giggling teenagers and weaved through the maze. It was a disorienting environment, all warped and baffling. Even the ceiling was covered in mirrored sheets. Sherlock reached out and took John’s hand so they wouldn’t get separated. Together, they took turn after turn, trying to find the other entrance.

“Where to, detective?” John asked after several minutes, squeezing his digits. 

Sherlock smiled at one of John’s reflections. They turned left and emerged in, not another corridor as Sherlock had been expecting, but in a large room. This tent was larger than he’d thought. 

“Blimey,” John muttered. A few of the teens were in the room as well, stumbling in the disorienting setting. The low light made it hard to find where the room let out into corridors, but Sherlock stepped forward with purpose anyway. 

“Ouch!” he dropped John’s hand to rub his arm, which had just rammed into a mirror that had appeared out of what seemed to be nowhere. 

“Sweetheart? You okay?”

“Fine,” Sherlock nodded, turning to backtrack. This room was split by several random freestanding mirrors, practically invisible until inches away.

“John?” He whirled. He could see a few fragments of the other people’s reflections, but nowhere was the distinctive army jacket or the bright blue eyes. “John, where did you go?”

The setting was confusing, with the shrieks and giggles of the teens, the low light, and the rather dizzying mirrors. Sherlock was beginning to regret having come in here, or at least having let go of John.

“Hey, where are you?” John sounded amused, and not far away. “I just had you!”

“I’m here, walk toward me.” Sherlock felt his way carefully around what he thought was the correct corner, but found himself in a corridor rather than the larger part of the room. “Follow my voice. John?”

“I’m trying,” John laughed. 

“ _ Sherlock _ .”

“What? I’m here.” Sherlock spun on the spot again, frowning in concentration. It didn’t help that the mirrors were all a bit distorted. He brushed past a distressed looking teen boy and girl, who were clinging to each other as they twisted through the same area as Sherlock. 

“ _ Sherlock _ .”

This time, as Sherlock rounded a corner and came face to face with the same boy and girl and realized somehow he was going in circles did he hear the voice again. And this time, he realized it was not John’s voice. 

“John?” he called in alarm. “Can you hear me?”

He turned. Who had said his name? Not John, so who? Who else knew his name here? He hadn’t seen anyone he knew, and John hadn’t said it since well before they’d entered the mirrors… 

He swallowed, genuine fear beginning to creep through him. 

“John?” he repeated as his throat tightened with fear.

“Hey,” John’s voice said, nearby but still out of sight. “I’m here, love.” 

“Where?” Sherlock asked in a more strangled voice now, but at the same time, he heard it again.

“ _ Sherlock _ .”

“Hang on,” John said, but Sherlock had frozen. His heart was pounding. Who was here? He didn’t understand. 

“John,” he said again, pressed against the nearest mirror. 

“Hey, there you are,” John emerged from around the corner, grinning. “How did that even happen? I could have sworn you were next to me one second-”   
Sherlock, relief flooding through him, darted forward and kissed John’s cheek. “I have no idea,” he answered in as casual a tone as he could muster. “Tricks of the light and reflections, I guess. Let’s find our way out of here.”

They gripped hands all the way through, until at last, several minutes later, they emerged back into the clear night. 

“Whew,” John sighed. “It was stuffy in there.” He fanned his face and glanced at Sherlock as if to assure himself he was alright. 

Sherlock nodded. “Did you say my name in there?” he asked without thinking. 

John frowned. “I don’t know, maybe? Why?”

“I thought I heard someone whispering my name,” Sherlock shrugged. 

“Oh,” John’s frown deepened. “No, I wasn’t whispering it. I might have said it, you know, loudly, but…” He tilted his head at Sherlock. “Are you sure that’s what you heard?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock’s fingers clenched on the stuffed bee. “Maybe I imagined it.”

John’s lips twitched. “Did you get scared?”

“Oh, shut up,” Sherlock laughed. Out here in the cool open night air, it was easy to explain it away as getting worried -  _ not _ scared - and imagining hearing his name among the mingled, echoing noises in the maze. 

John gave him a brief one-armed hug and they moved on. Sherlock glanced over his shoulder, but nothing looked amiss.

It was probably just his imagination. Nothing to worry about.

 

 

* * *

 

A quarter of an hour after the strange incident in the mirrors, Sherlock and John tumbled off the roller coaster, laughing and dizzy.

“Damn,” John gasped, leaning his hands on his knees and grinning. “Why did we do that three times in a row?”

“Because we’re young and mad,” Sherlock teased. Really, it had just been because they could. They so infrequently got to see roller coasters that such a carnival as this was a delightful novelty. This one may be small, but its speed had surprised John. 

He giggled, then straightened up once the ground had mostly stopped swaying. He met Sherlock’s gaze, which was bright and happy, no longer unnerved and shaken as it had been in the mirrors. Relieved at the change in his boyfriend’s mood, John took his hand again and they proceeded down the pavement again to look in at the other tents.

There were the typical “freak” tents, though both John and Sherlock brushed them off as hoaxes (“probably cow fetuses touted as alien specimens,” Sherlock scoffed), shops selling spooky Halloween decorations (“that skull isn’t anatomically correct! What human has forty teeth?” Sherlock cried), and several tents featuring advertisements for fortune tellers and mediums (“idiots, all of them,” Sherlock huffed). 

“Having fun?” John asked with a smirk. He always enjoyed hearing Sherlock’s commentary on things, even if the group lined up to enter the nearest medium’s tent shot him affronted, offended looks. He always spoke his mind, a refreshing thing sometimes, and was unafraid to be who he really was. John found he admired that; Sherlock proclaimed his thoughts and knowledge proudly without any shame. 

“Yes,” Sherlock winked. The detective had evidently seen the looks he was receiving and found them amusing. He glanced back over his shoulder at the people, but his face fell.

“What’s up?” John asked. He looked at them as well but saw nothing amiss. 

Sherlock seemed to shake himself out of a thought. “Nothing. Just… was that not good?”

John shrugged. “I happen to agree with you about them being idiots, so no.”

Sherlock nodded, though still seemed distracted. John wondered at it for a moment, but then spotted a large wooden structure up ahead, one of the only parts of the carnival that was not made from fabric.

“Oh, Sherlock, look!” he cried when he came within view of the sign hammered into the ground outside it. “Let’s go in there!”

“Haunted House,” Sherlock read, musing. Then he grinned, eyes lighting up, which was all the answer John needed.

 

 

* * *

 

Sherlock and John stepped up to the entrance of the haunted house, where a slender vampire woman waited. 

“Hello boys,” she crooned. “Want inside? I warn you, it’s-”

“Yes, yes, full of horrors, we know the drill,” Sherlock dismissed. 

John chuckled. “Can we just… head in then?” he asked with a sheepish smile. 

She eyed him, her fangs grinning. “Sure, honey. First right, then you’ll see where to go after that. Good luck,” she added. Her voice took on a more predatory lilt then, and she bared her teeth further. “Most who enter never return.”

Sherlock scoffed and pulled John inside the building and into the corridor, which was nearly pitch black. Before he could walk forward, however, John tugged Sherlock to a stop and slid an arm about his waist. 

“Now who’s jealous?” he murmured with a soft laugh. 

Sherlock huffed. “Oh, please John, why would I be jealous of a vampire? You have more sense than that.”

“And better taste,” John whispered. “I mean, a pirate is  _ so _ much better than a vampire.”

He pressed a light kiss to Sherlock’s cheek and then stepped away. “Come on.”

 

 

* * *

 

For the first few rooms, the haunted house was fine. Sherlock rather enjoyed the sensation of how John clung to his arm as they crept into the first chamber. Inside, a corpse swung at them from the ceiling while an ear-piercing shriek sounded. 

John gasped and flung himself into Sherlock’s side. 

“You okay?” he asked then, as if trying to pretend he hadn’t jumped several feet.

Sherlock merely chuckled and they sidled gingerly around the corpse together. 

In the next room they were accosted by a man in surgical scrubs and wielding, not a scalpel or syringe, but a large bloody machete. He approached, cackling, and Sherlock could feel John tensing. 

“Come on,” he giggled in spite of his own pounding heartbeat. 

“Okay,” John said in a voice clearly attempting to remain steady.

In the third room, larger than the previous two, they found a trio of girls a few years younger than they, squealing and darting around to avoid the pair of figures in poorly-designed Frankenstein costumes. Their skin, even in the low light, was just too green. Sherlock, momentarily distracted by their nearly forest green pallor, was startled when John’s hand was abruptly yanked away as two of the girls, shrieking and laughing, pushed between them in an effort to dash into the next room.

Sherlock staggered and felt a sudden claw-like hand grasp him and yank him into a corner out of range of the dim light in the ceiling. 

He gasped and attempted to pull away, but the viselike grip tightened, and a low voice breathed in his ear.

“Sherlock. I thought that was you earlier.”

Sherlock stiffened. It was the voice he’d heard in the hall of mirrors. He squinted into the darkness, and managed to discern a face covered in two much costume makeup.

Too much  _ zombie  _ costume makeup.

“You,” Sherlock frowned. “From the water balloon game.”

“Not just from that,” the zombie replied. His voice had changed from how it had sounded in the booth earlier; now, it was lower and laced with venom “Look a little harder, pretty boy.”

Sherlock hated to, but he leaned forward. It only took an instant, of gazing at the bright brown eyes behind all the eyeshadow.

“Seb… Sebastian?” he breathed in horror.

He staggered back and collided with one of the Frankensteins. 

“I’ll be seeing you, Sherlock,” whispered Sebastian Moran.

Sherlock shoved the moaned Frankenstein away, shaking. In the split second he looked from Sebastian to the monster and back, the man was gone.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

John certainly was racking up a poor record for keeping track of his boyfriend, he mused, as he flinched at the loud banging of the half-decayed prisoners grasping for him through the bars of their cells. First the mirrors, now here...

“Sherlock?” he called again, the tenth time in the last minute. “Sherlock, where are you?”

His heart seemed to be attempting to beat itself out of his chest. The prisoners were still moaning and whispering and reaching for him, but he ignored them. Sherlock had vanished in the Frankenstein room, which was three rooms ago. John had groped his way through the next ones, dodging mummies and ghosts and a chainsaw wielding man in his search. Now, he was beginning to seriously worry. Had something happened? It was supposed to be a harmless haunted house, just a fun scare, but… who knew? Someone could have really done something to Sherlock.

No, that was absurd. He was fine, of course he was. It was just the strange lighting, the spooky music, and the jump-scares that were getting to him. He’d turn a corner at any moment and find Sherlock on the other side of it-

“Ahh!” he cried, as he rounded a corner into the next room and came face to face with a tall, pale, curly-haired figure. 

“John?”

“Bloody hell!” John clutched at his chest, gasping for breath. “You scared me!”

Sherlock stepped close. “Where were you?” he asked. 

John looked up and frowned. Even in the dim light, he could see how wide Sherlock’s eyes were, how quickly his chest was rising and falling, as if he’d run a distance or received a shock. “I turned around, back in the Frankenstein room, and you weren’t there. I kinda wandered around looking for you. I thought you might have gotten ahead of me. So, where did you go?”

Sherlock shrugged in an obvious stab at casual. “I got held up. Sorry.”

“You sure you’re okay?” John winced at the sudden screeching from the next room, and moved closer into Sherlock’s arms without thinking. Sherlock’s hands came up to pull him close. John could feel his heart hammering. 

“I’m fine,” Sherlock’s voice sounded higher than normal. “Let’s just go. This… isn’t quite what I expected.”

“Yeah,” John replied, still wondering at what was wrong with Sherlock, but eager to escape the place as well. He was more afraid than he was willing to admit, after all.

They sped through the last few rooms as quickly as they could. Once outside, the sounds of moaning, shrieking, and eerie music still echoing in their ears, John turned back to Sherlock as they walked back through the carnival. 

“You’re  _ sure _ you’re alright?” John asked one more time. “You look a little,,,”

Sherlock mustered a weak smile. “I guess it just got to me,” he replied with a gesture back toward the haunted house. Then he reached down and squeezed John’s hand. “You were scared too, though.”

John laughed, pretending at offense. “I was not!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Please, I saw you in there, in that doctor’s room.”

“Okay, well, wouldn’t  _ anyone  _ find that disturbing?”

“Perhaps, but aren’t you training to be a doctor?”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean I’m extra immune to creepy!”

“Right,” Sherlock said, voice laced with dripping skepticism. “I suppose when we get home, you’ll insist we watch some crap telly, then? Some awful romantic comedy perhaps?”

John blushed. “No!” he retorted, then, after a moment’s hesitation, continued, “Not if you cuddle with me.”

Sherlock chuckled. All seemed back to normal with them as they headed out of the park for the Tube station, their fingers interlaced and their voices teasing. But if Sherlock’s hand seemed to be clutching John’s a little tighter, if his eyes still seemed to be darting around more than usual, well, John decided it may be best not to mention it.

It was probably just the Halloween spookiness, after all. 


	2. The Texts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian reaches out again, and Sherlock flounders, wondering what to do.

That night, all was dark in London. The streetlamps cast a soft golden light over the pavement, the breeze was light and cool, and on Baker Street all seemed still.

Upstairs, in 221B, silence reigned, punctuated only by the soft breathing emanating from the bedroom.

But one of those breathers was not asleep.

Sherlock sat propped up against the headboard with his arms wrapped around his legs, which were pressed to his chest. He stared straight ahead at the dim room, unseeing. Next to him, John slumbered peacefully.

As he gazed around the room, without taking any of it in, Sherlock’s mind was churning at a breakneck pace. Sebastian Moran was supposed to have been sent to prison for three years. So what was he doing here, out and free, a year and a half early? How had this been allowed? He couldn’t have escaped; he showed no signs of being on the run, and besides, Sherlock would surely have found out beforehand. So had Sebastian then snuck into the carnival and pretended to be an employee? No, how could he have known Sherlock was going to be there? Their encounter had to have been a chance one. So had he, somehow, gotten the job on his own? How, how, _how_ could this have happened?

And what was Sherlock going to do about it? More than that, what _could_ he do? He didn’t know where to find Sebastian, didn’t know what he was really up to, or anything useful. All he knew… well, all he knew was that Sebastian had scared him.

_“I’ll be seeing you, Sherlock.”_

Sherlock shivered as the memory of the man’s words echoed in his mind. It was a threat; he just knew it was. A vague threat, to be sure, but full of malicious intent nonetheless. Yet just eighteen months ago, when John had told him about Sebastian’s prison sentence, Sherlock had thought it was over. He’d thought it was in the past, that he and John would be fine, that he wouldn’t ever have to think about it again.

He’d been wrong. Obviously. He dragged his fingers through his hair, sighing at his own naivete.

He would have to do research in the morning. Employment records of the carnival, criminal records, and perhaps even - if he could manage to hack into the right sites - reports from the prison. He supposed he could do it right now, but…

He glanced to the other side of the bed, where John slept on, unaware anything was wrong, blissfully oblivious of the fact that a vengeful drug dealer had them on his radar again. His arm was slung lazily across Sherlock’s waist, not gripping but more like a touch to assure himself, even in sleep, that Sherlock was still there.

And Sherlock knew he couldn’t very well leave. So it would have to be the morning, he resolved, when it wasn’t warm and comfortable next to his John.

He slid back down further under the covers and readjusted John’s arm so it draped across his chest. “Goodnight,” he murmured.

“Mmm,” John made a soft noise as he shifted, moving closer to Sherlock and not waking.

Sherlock turned his head to stare up at the ceiling. What the hell was he going to do?

 

 

* * *

 

 

The next day, afternoon light slanted in through the window as Sherlock tapped away at his laptop. John was gone, still at work at the hospital, so the detective knew he could research to his heart’s content without having to change out of his pyjamas or risk John walking in and seeing what he was up to.

“Moran…” he murmured to the empty room. “Prison records…”

There. He leaned forward, brow furrowing as he read. Using Mycroft’s clearance codes, he’d accessed employment and prison records, though it yielded worrying results. Sebastian had been paroled this month, for good behavior. Sherlock scoffed. If he knew anything about Sebastian, the man was lying through his overly-white teeth. He recalled in the lectures they had shared their first year of uni how he’d more than once charmed his way to a pass grade, employing manipulation or even outright subterfuge of other students when he needed to. It was no stretch of the imagination to believe that he had pretended at being a remorseful, well behaved prisoner.

So. Sherlock sat back, sighing and clicking to another tab. After he’d left prison, he’d seemed to have found employment in the carnival, a low-paying and temporary job, but Sherlock supposed it was the best he could do, considering he was a paroled drug dealer and all.

Worst of all, he couldn’t find any sign of where Sebastian might be living. He could only assume, short of somehow hacking into the entire London CCTV system to confirm, that Sebastian was staying with friends.

He groaned and leaned back in his chair, balancing it on the two back legs as he thought.

But what was Sebastian planning? Were they perhaps empty threats? Sherlock had been tired, after all, and probably over-thinking everything about the situation last night. Sebastian couldn’t know where he was… He’d moved to Baker Street now, he was in all different classes. There was no way Sebastian could find him too easily.

His phone buzzed. Assuming it was John, or perhaps Lestrade, Sherlock snatched it up off the table and swiped it unlocked.

**_U look good in that coat_ **

Sherlock stared down at the text, frowning. His thumbs flew across the screen as he composed a tentative reply.

_I think you have the wrong number. I’m not wearing a coat, anyway._

The response arrived within seconds.

 **_Maybe not now but u were at the carnival_ ** _._

Sherlock felt his hands start to shake, just a bit. He _had_ been wearing his coat at the carnival. The wind had been strong and cold, so Sherlock had grabbed his new coat - a dark wool one John had bought him for his birthday - and wrapped it tightly around himself before he and John had set out for the fateful event.

Whoever this was, then, had seen him there. Well. He shook off the worry tugging at the back of his mind. There could be any number of people who’d seen him and recognized him. Dozens of people around Sherlock’s age had been there, and even if Sherlock hadn’t recognized them in the dark and the costumes, that did not necessarily mean they had not realized it was him. John often said he had a distinctive face, after all.

That, or this person texting him was bluffing, Sherlock supposed. This could just as easily be someone playing a prank on a number they’d randomly typed in. But then, how could they have guessed a random number had gone to the carnival?

His phone buzzed again, and he looked back down.

**_You’ve grown. Your taller than ur little doctor boyfriend now. Does he get u back for the height difference in bed? Short bloke complex or whatever its called? Does he get all rough?_ **

Sherlock stared. Whoever this was seemed to know him, John, and about their relationship. But… it couldn’t be… No. He refused to believe it. There had to be another explanation. His thumbs quavered as they typed a reply.

_Who is this?_

He waited, staring unblinkingly at his phone, until the reply came. When it did, he sucked in a breath, fear lancing through him like ice.

**_U know perfectly well who, Sherlock._ **

 

 

* * *

 

 

The texts continued, arriving at least once a day.

A week after the first one had arrived, Sherlock was sat in the university’s library, working on an assignment. He was nearly finished when his phone buzzed and he turned to see the name - UNKNOWN - lighting up the screen. He ignored the first few, but after the fourth, he caved and snatched up the device.

**_Uv got a new haircut too. John likes those ugly curls?_ **

**_Maybe he likes pulling them_ **

**_U looked so happy at the carnival_ **

**_Bet u thought u got away with it_ **

Sherlock felt his chest tighten. He glanced around the library guardedly, hoping he would not see who he feared. No one appeared to be paying any attention, everyone near him too busy, too wrapped up in their own work. And nowhere was Sebastian. Perhaps he was just talking about Sherlock’s hair based off his memory of their encounter at the carnival. It didn’t necessarily mean he was watching Sherlock right now…

Oh, God, he was getting to him. Sebastian was in his head now, sowing paranoia.

_Leave me alone._

Sherlock did not very well suppose a response like that would work, but he felt at a loss for what else to do.

**_Not in the mood. Ur too fun to play with. I shoulda come up with this a year and a half ago. U know before you sent me to prison_ **

_Come up with what?_ Sherlock typed back.

**_This little game_ **

_Glad you’re enjoying yourself. You’ll be going back to prison if you keep this up._

**_Haha yeah right. U dont know where to find me_ **

_Not yet._ Sherlock tapped hard, his shaking hands betraying the tension thrumming through him. After sending the text message with a hard jab of his index finger, he turned off his phone and turned back to his work.

Though try as he might to concentrate on the formulas and experiment notes before him, he could not deny how rapidly his heart was pounding.

 

 

* * *

 

 

More days passed, and the texts continued, each one ratcheting up Sherlock’s anxiety by degrees.

**_Nice shirt. Blue suits u_ **

**_How goes the love life? John treating u right?_ **

**_Hey, freak_ **

**_U know u ruined my life right_ **

**_Its only fair i return the favor_ **

**_Watch ur back Sherlock. U wouldn’t want to get hurt_ **

**_Bart’s… not the hospital i’d choose to visit but to each his own - guess the good ones wouldn’t take Johnny boy_ **

And so on. Sherlock didn’t dare delete them, in case he needed them - they were evidence, after all, and he was a detective - but he also now worried that John would notice them if he ever used Sherlock’s phone.

Not that John was around much these days, Sherlock admitted to himself ruefully. He reclined back on the sofa where he had thrown himself earlier, flipping through a textbook but shooting glances at his quiet-for-the-moment mobile every few seconds. It was nearing half-six, and there was still no sign of John, who was supposed to be home for dinner. A dinner that hopefully would not be punctuated by the incessant buzzing of Sebastian’s texts.

Sherlock sighed and twirled a lock of hair around his finger. Finding Sebastian was proving more challenging than he had expected. The residential records had yielded to him any leads, and cracking the firewall of London’s CCTV network was above his abilities for now. He’d need to hone his hacking skills a bit. Pity Mycroft did not yet have clearance; that would have streamlined this entire process.

He _knew_ he had other resources, but he felt reticent to use them. He _knew_ Mycroft knew people high up in government who could lend a hand. He _knew_ Lestrade would likely have access to information, surveillance, and databases that Sherlock didn’t, but… he hesitated to bring it to anyone’s attention. He’d promised himself he could deal with this, and besides, there were no solid threats. If Sebastian was planning something, Sherlock couldn’t deduce through his texts what it is. So he felt there wasn’t much to bring to Lestrade even if he wanted to.

And Mycroft was out of the country at the moment on some sort of consultation with an American agency as part of his first job with the British government. Had his brother been here in England, Sherlock felt certain he already would have intercepted the messages and intervened with ferocity. So there was no help from that quarter, not that Sherlock wanted any.

He could deal with this himself.

For now, a soft voice warned him in the back of his mind. Sherlock scowled. No, he resolved. He _would_ deal with this on his own. No point worrying anyone else. They were all busy with their own lives, anyway.

His phone buzzed, eliciting a jump. Sherlock stared at the offending device, heart rate skyrocketing in spite of himself, until he realized the name on the screen was not Unknown, but John. With a sigh of relief he ignored he made, he lifted the phone.

**Hey I’m so sorry but I’m not going to be home for dinner. A couple of my co-workers want us to have a study session and I really think I need to stay for it.**

Sherlock sighed as he picked up the phone and tapped out a reply.

_That’s ok. See you later?_

**Yeah, I’ll be late probably. You don’t need to wait up**

_Ok. Goodnight._

**Goodnight. I love you**

_I love you too._

 

 

* * *

 

 

Several hours later, Sherlock couldn’t sleep. He had class at eight the next morning, but the absence of John and the looming idea of Sebastian were making it difficult to feel drowsy. He’d stayed awake so late the last few nights, only managing a few fitful hours of rest, that his body was exhausted. His mind, on the other hand, was wide awake and fearful.

Because Sherlock could not deny it anymore: he was frightened. Two weeks had passed now since the carnival, and Sherlock still had been unable to divine how Sebastian knew the things he did, like where John worked and what Sherlock was wearing, but it scared him.

“Come on,” he murmured, rolling over yet again. “Sleep…”

Sebastian wasn’t here, he told himself yet again. It’s safe here. Whatever he’s wanting to do to you, he can’t get you here.

A noise in the flat made him tense up, until he heard the distinctive sliding of a key into a lock and footsteps that told him John was home. He sagged into the pillow in relief and peered at the clock on the bedside table. It was after one in the morning. John had certainly been correct about missing dinner.

Sherlock lay still, listening to the sounds of John moving about the flat: he removed his coat and shoes, stumbled into the bathroom and rinsed up, then entered the bedroom on cat’s paws, obviously under the impression Sherlock was asleep. Not wanting to disabuse him of this idea - John learning otherwise would probably lead to questions about whether Sherlock was feeling alright or something - Sherlock remained still and breathed slow and deep.

John moved about the room quietly, soft noises telling Sherlock he was changing clothes. After a minute, the mattress dipped down on one side as John climbed into bed.

“Night, Sherlock,” he whispered. He slid close and placed a hand on Sherlock’s arm, then, after a brief hesitation, wrapped it around Sherlock’s body, moving flush against the detective’s back.

And Sherlock stayed there with John all around him, as his breath softened and slowed toward a sleeping rate as it brushed against his skin.

Strange, he mused once it became clear that John had drifted off, that he could be snuggled in a soft bed with the warmth of his boyfriend all around him, and still feel so alone.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The texts continued.

Sherlock searched desperately for a hint of where Sebastian might be hiding, but the man was too vague, too focused on talking about Sherlock, to give any clues. Sherlock even tried asking him questions, but the other man always stopped texting for a few hours when that happening.

Well if anything, Sherlock mused, that got Sebastian off his back for a while.

Meanwhile, John’s schedule was becoming increasingly tight. He had several exams coming up, major ones, and it seemed he was spending more and more time holed up in various study spots and less and less time with Sherlock. The detective didn’t mind, not really. He understood how much this meant to John. Becoming a doctor was his dream; Sherlock was not going to stand in the way of that. He only wished John would notice him, would at least study at home on occasion.

One night, after a relatively quiet day from Sebastian, Sherlock was sprawled on the floor of their flat, examining a diagram in one of his textbooks when John abruptly bounded through the door.

“Sherlock!” he called, then spotted him on the floor and skidded to a halt. “Oh, there you are.”

“What is it?” Sherlock asked, sitting up.

“I’m just passing through,” John replied. “Have you seen my anatomy book?”

Sherlock paused, heart sinking in disappointment. But he pointed across the room, where the book sat on the shelf, shoved in among John’s pile of horrible mystery paperbacks. John spotted it and dashed over.

“Thanks a million,” he said, a little breathless. “I’ll see you later, okay? Probably will be another late night.”

Sherlock nodded and turned back to his own work. However, some of the disappointment he felt must have shown in his expression, because John hesitated before heading out the door.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice taking on a familiar tone of affection. “Want to meet after your lessons tomorrow? At that cafe you like on the corner? I can spare an hour.”

Sherlock raised his gaze again. John was biting his lip, a look around the eyes something like an apology. It sent a little shot of warmth through him.

“Sure.”

John smiled, a brief but soft thing, and then he was gone.

Again.

Sherlock let out a long, slow exhale, which was cut off suddenly as his phone buzzed.

**_I haven’t forgotten about you, Sherlock._ **

Sherlock barely glanced at the message before he locked the phone again. Twelve blissful hours, but he should have known Sebastian wouldn’t take off too much time. He had quite the fixation, it seemed.

But honestly, a stalker out for revenge shouldn’t be talking to him more often than his own _boyfriend_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *barely slides in to meet self-imposed deadline* Whew, made it! Thanks so much for reading! Chapter three will be up before the month is out! For now, if you have time and inclination to do so, please leave a comment and let me know what you think!


	3. A Proper, Normal Boyfriend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John learns something he doesn't like...

Sherlock couldn’t remember the last time he had felt this alone. He was on his side, facing the empty half of the bed, one hand resting on the place John should have been. But John had already left hours ago, rushing off to class and leaving Sherlock alone, without even bothering to wake his boyfriend to tell him goodbye. Instead, Sherlock had awoken some time later to find the bed already cold on that side, and he had been lying there ever since, thinking.

It had been nearly a month now. Nearly a month of the texts and the steadily growing distance from John.

He couldn’t decide which was hurting him most, the worry and fear Sebastian was causing him or the loneliness and sadness John was.

Last week, John had forgotten a date he and Sherlock had planned weeks before. He still hadn’t remembered.

And yet Sebastian seemed able to remember Sherlock nearly every hour.

He felt a surge of anger as he stared at the empty side of the bed, a surge which caused him to bite down hard on his lip in an attempt to suppress it. Yet he was not even sure which person he was angrier at…  

Sebastian, for finding him again and filling his life with paranoia and uncertainty?

John, for forgetting about him in his extreme dedication to his work?

Or… himself, for allowing both things to happen?

Sherlock blinked hard. Perhaps it was just what he deserved, slowly and painfully losing the boy he loved. He’d always been a freak; why had he allowed himself to believe he would get to keep John? No one had stayed with him in any capacity for as long as John had, true, but that only made it increasingly likely, with each passing day, that he would leave. He would realize what a strange, asocial, _freakish_ person Sherlock was, just as everyone else had, and he would leave.

Sherlock shouldn’t have let himself believe it. He shouldn’t have let himself get so close, should have rebuffed John’s gentle advances once they’d become friends, should have told John after their first kiss that a relationship with him was not a good idea that would only end in pain for them both. He shouldn’t have given into his own sentiment, because now he was paying the price. The price being, of course, his heart, which he felt was becoming more bruised by the day.

Sherlock sighed. Well, there was nothing he could do about that problem from here in bed. He struggled out from under the tangled sheets and crossed to the closet. In the midst of his rather mechanical dressing, however, his phone buzzed.

He took a deep breath as he stepped back around the bed to retrieve it.

I’ve got a case for you, if you’re interested.

Sherlock sighed in relief and tapped out a reply. A case from Lestrade sounded like the perfect distraction from the mess he called his present life.

_Text me the address. I’m on my way._

 

 

* * *

 

 

Seven hours later, Sherlock flopped into a cab, feeling exhilarated and lighter than he had in weeks. The case had been, by his estimation, an eight. A disappearance from a room that had been locked from the outside, a complex scheme of extortion, and a quick chase through a maze of alleys later, and Sherlock had both caught the criminal, thwarted the murder of the kidnapped man, and actually gotten a clap on the back from Lestrade.

Despite his usual aversion for human contact, Sherlock found himself rather pleased with that reaction.

 _Of course_ , he reminded himself, sobering a bit, _that could simply be because you haven’t had John touch you in about a week_.

Which was true; the last time John had kissed him - properly, that was - had been three whole days ago, and any cuddling that happened lately took place while John was asleep, which Sherlock didn’t count. He missed the encouragement, the physical affection.

Pathetic. When had he gotten so pathetic? When had he had to get any sense of confidence from a simple pat on the back from a Detective Inspector who hardly knew him? What had happened to his own self-confidence?

More than that, he had almost spilled it all then, almost blurted out to Lestrade all his problems, almost confided in this man he had a strictly professional relationship with. He had even opened his mouth to speak when Lestrade’s phone rang.

“Sorry,” the detective had grimaced as he looked at the phone’s screen. “I’ve got to take this. It’s my wife’s lawyer.”

And he had stepped a few paces away, talking to some boring suit about the messy divorce he was trying to navigate. And Sherlock saw clearly then that he could hardly justify bothering Lestrade with his problems; the man had enough of his own to be dealing with Sherlock’s at the moment.

Back in the present, Sherlock sighed and settled back farther into the cab’s seat cushion, crossing his arms. As he did so, his arm pressed against his phone, tucked into an inside pocket of his coat. Sebastian had only sent him one text so far, just a vague reference to how much he’d thought about Sherlock in the last twelve hours or so. Sherlock supposed it was a mark of how strange his life had become lately that this did not concern him much. At least Sebastian did not seem to be trying to actually _do_ anything to him.

Meanwhile, John had been radio silent, again. Sherlock tried to ignore the twinge of mingled annoyance, resentment, and longing that accompanied that thought. Maybe by the time Sherlock got home, John would be there too.

He hoped. Though, he noted with more than a hint of bitterness, he wasn’t even sure what John’s schedule was any longer.

Yet as he turned to gaze out the window, thoughts of how much he missed John still tugged at his consciousness, and everything suddenly felt colder than it had before.

The rest of the cab ride seemed a blur, and he had to blink himself out of a deep reverie when the vehicle came to a stop in front of the flat. He handed over the money with an absentminded word of thanks, then climbed out onto the pavement.

“Sherlock!”

He turned on his heel to find John approaching with a small smile on his face. And in spite of their lack of communication lately, Sherlock felt his heart leap at the sight of him. He smiled back and waited in front of the door for John to catch up, making a deduction with every step his boyfriend took.

Class went long… forgot to iron that shirt yesterday like he planned… busy shift… turned down an interested girl… narrowly avoided being vomited on by a patient, ugh… got a coffee at the hospital cafe…

“And where did you go today? I thought you didn’t have class today. Or wait, what day is it? Tuesday?”

“Monday,” Sherlock replied in amusement. He pecked John on the cheek.

“Sorry,” John said when they broke apart. “I guess I’m all thrown off after taking that extra shift on Saturday. I’ll figure it out in a day or so…” His voice trailed off as he was overtaken by a massive yawn.

Sherlock chuckled. “Long day?”

John started to nod, but the movement faded away as his expression slipped into one of shock and… horror?

“John?” Sherlock asked, alarmed. He started to turn his head, to look over his shoulder to see whatever it was John had noticed, but John snatched his arm.

“Don’t,” he hissed. His voice was low, intense, almost scared. “Act like everything’s okay.”

“How can I when you won’t let me see what’s wrong?” Sherlock snapped, surprising even himself with the venom in his voice. Something within him, though, had realized what was probably behind them, and his heart started to pound. He tugged his arm out of John’s grip and whirled.

Sebastian stood several hundred meters away across the street. He was facing their flat, eyes fixed on Sherlock and John. As they both stared, he lifted the cigarette in his fingers in a kind of mocking salute, then turned and walked away. Neither boy dared take their eyes off him until he had rounded the corner and disappeared.

Sherlock felt as if he couldn’t breathe. His heart pounded in his ears, a roaring noise that blocked out all other sound. He couldn’t shift his gaze from the spot where Sebastian had been standing, watching them. He did not understand how he had been so stupid, how he had just assumed Sebastian could not, would not, find out where he lived. The man had already done so once back in the first year of uni, after all. How had Sherlock been such an idiot?

“Sherlock.”

He blinked and wrenched his gaze away from the street corner, turning instead to face John again.

“Sherlock, breathe,” his boyfriend was saying, hands wrapped around Sherlock’s upper arms to steady him. “Just breathe, he’s gone. Come on, let’s get you inside.”

Sherlock allowed John to steer him inside and up the stairs, not even thinking to enjoy the touch. He followed automatically as John moved them both to the sofa and then slid close and began rubbing Sherlock’s back.

“That’s it,” he murmured as Sherlock took a gasping breath. “He’s gone, it’s okay.”

He paused in his gentle stroking, then rose. Sherlock watched, still a bit shellshocked, as John crossed to the window and peered out. A few moments later he seemed to deem everything satisfactory, for he pulled the curtains shut with a decisive yank. He hurried back to Sherlock’s side and resumed the backrub.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

Sherlock nodded. His lungs no longer felt as though they were being squeezed through a narrow pipe, so that had to be an improvement. “Sebastian,” he whispered. He would have to tell John everything now; he just knew it. The time for dealing with this alone seemed to have passed.

“Yeah,” John nodded. “I thought so too. What do you think he was doing out? I thought he was in prison for, like, another year or two.”

Sherlock nodded back. “It’s only been about nineteen months since he was convicted.”

“Trust you to keep track better than me,” John smiled, though it was strained. “How did he get out? You don’t think he escaped, do you?”

Sherlock shook his head. “No, he’s on parole.”

John’s hand stilled on Sherlock’s back. When he spoke again, his voice was low. “You already knew about that?”

“Yes,” Sherlock sighed. “I’ve known for about a month. From the prison records, it seems he’s been out about six weeks.”

“And you felt like keeping this to yourself, did you?”

Sherlock ignored his sharp tone, too busy steeling himself to reveal everything to pay much attention to the warning John’s voice contained.

“He’s been texting me.” There, the truth was out.

John stiffened. “What?”

Sherlock risked a glance, and found John’s eyes wide and horrified. “For a month,” he nodded.

“Let me see.”

It was not an unexpected request. Sighing, Sherlock pulled out his mobile, unlocked it, and pulled up the text thread with Sebastian. John flicked to the top and read, eyes blurring slightly as he scanned the messages. Sherlock fiddled with a loose string on the edge of the sofa, waiting.

After several minutes, John lowered the phone. He stood again, paced a few times back and forth in front of the sofa, and then at last turned to stare at Sherlock. His face was no longer as horrified. But now, it was laced with anger too.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked quietly.

Sherlock shrugged, electing to aim for casual. “I thought at first it was just him blowing off steam.”

“Sherlock.”

“Well, he didn’t know where I live or visit often, so I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

“Sherlock, he’s stalking you.” John’s voice was almost a growl. “He followed us at the carnival, he admitted it himself, and now he knows where we live!”

Sherlock faltered a little at that. During the past month of frightening texts and burgeoning paranoia, Sherlock had still rarely allowed himself to think that word: _stalking_. But hearing it now in John’s voice rather than the whispery one in the back of his own mind, made it all seem more real.

Shame flooded him, and he wrapped his arms around himself. “I thought I could deal with him. I thought there was no need to worry you.”

“Well then, what about this?” John snapped, returning to the phone and brandishing it toward Sherlock. “These bits where he talks about me, and Bart’s, and… and us? You didn’t see fit to worry me then?”

Sherlock scowled as irritation flashed within him. “No, I didn’t.”

“Why not?” John’s voice rose in volume abruptly. “Why didn’t you? Sherlock, this isn’t just about you!”

“Isn’t it?” Sherlock shot back, rising to his feet as well. “He isn’t texting _you_!”

“No, but he’s mentioned me and where I work! You should have told me!”

“Well, maybe I would have!” Sherlock cried. To his horror, he felt his eyes prickle and blinked quickly to dispel the sensation. “Maybe, if you’d actually been _around_ , I would have mentioned it to you!”

John’s mouth dropped open. “You’re blaming _me_ for this?”

“No!” Sherlock snapped. “I’m just saying, you-”

“I’ve been working, Sherlock-”

“-haven’t been around, and-”

“-it’s not like Bart’s goes easy on me, just because I’m a-”

“-I didn’t know how to tell you, especially since I figured I needed to-”

“-student! It’s not exactly my fault! I’m trying to-”

“-do it over text, because you haven’t exactly been present lately-”

“-do something important with my life!”

“-and I was scared!” Sherlock’s voice rose as he finished, though not enough to match John’s in volume. It was too upset.

John froze. For an instant, they stared, each finally taking in the words the other had been saying. Sherlock felt his chest heaving again, and the prickle in his eyes had returned, stronger this time.

“I was _scared_ , John,” Sherlock admitted again. “I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t _know_ if I should tell Lestrade or somebody, and Mycroft is out of the country still on that whatever-it-is trip, and…” He swallowed, his vision now swimming. “And I feel like I’ve been all alone, because you’re barely here, and… I don’t know. I’ve been too scared. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do to fix this.”

John blinked at him a moment, countenance caught between something like pity and something like fury.

“You can’t blame me for this, though. I haven’t done anything wrong,” he crossed his arms, definitely angry now. “You should have told me.”

Sherlock felt like sinking through the floor. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“I’ve just been busy Sherlock,” he continued, still speaking much louder than Sherlock was. “But you could have texted me! It’s not like I don’t check my phone throughout the day! You could have said you needed to tell me something! You shouldn’t have pretended everything was fine! I don’t understand why you kept quiet!”

Sherlock couldn’t help the strangled sound he made then, nor could he stop the tear from escaping his eye and trickling down his cheek. “I don’t understand either,” he whispered.

John looked unmoved, which made Sherlock feel even worse. “So what do you propose to do about it, now that we’re both on the same page about things? Gonna continue keeping me out of the loop? Or are you going to start acting like a proper, normal boyfriend?”

Sherlock couldn’t make his voice work. All he could manage was a sniff as his throat closed off and his vision was nearly entirely obscured by tears. John rolled his eyes, expression still so upset and hard.

“Fine,” he snapped. He stood. “I’ll see you.”

He made for the door.

“Wait,” Sherlock whispered. It was as loud as he could be for the moment. “Where are you going?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he paused at the door and gave Sherlock a mirthless, cold smile. “I don’t really think I need to tell you, do I?”

And he was gone, down the stairs before Sherlock could move. By the time he mustered the energy to follow after him, though, he heard the front door shut.

“John,” he breathed.

What had he done?

 

 

* * *

 

 

An hour later, or perhaps it was just a few seconds or maybe an entire year, Sherlock was still in the sitting room. He’d moved to his chair and remained there, wrapped in his coat and staring straight ahead. He felt numb all over, a condition that had set in the moment the front door had slammed on John.

The happiness and adrenaline from the case earlier had faded, replaced by seemingly-unending pain and worry. How could he have thought that things were fine just a short while ago? How could he have tricked himself into thinking that taking a case, even one so good as that one, would make his problems go away?

And he couldn’t forget John’s face, the way he’d looked as the fight had played out between them, a perverse pantomime of their usual playful bickering. The worst part was that Sherlock was the reason John had looked that way. Everything was due to Sherlock’s failure to deal with this in a sensible way.

He hated it. He thought he might hate himself too.

The door downstairs opening and closing made him jump. His mind kicked into gear without hesitation, as if he weren’t emotionally devastated. It wouldn’t be Mrs. Hudson; she was visiting her sister this week. And this person had used a key, so that meant, surely it had to mean... John was back.

Sherlock couldn’t move as he listened to the footsteps, a familiar echoey cadence approaching. John appeared in the doorway, and his eyes alighted on Sherlock instantly.

“Hi,” Sherlock said, suddenly breathless. Maybe he was here to make up, as Sherlock so wanted to do.

“Don’t mistake what I’m about to say for me being okay with what you did,” John replied without preamble, as though he had rehearsed it in his head several times before. He took a breath. His eyes were still icy and upset, and in the low light of the disappearing sun, he looked even angrier than his voice sounded. “I’ll help you, assuming you’re actually going to do something to get Sebastian out of your life.”

Sherlock nodded. That had been one thing he’d been able to decide on definitively during John’s absence. He had to stop Sebastian and try to salvage this mess.

John gave him a curt nod back. “Good. After that though, we need to talk. About us,” he added in response to Sherlock’s nonplussed look. “You’ve lied to me for a month. So don’t bother pretending we’re okay while we work this case, okay?”

Sherlock nodded, throat tight. “Okay.”

John swallowed. “Good.” He surveyed Sherlock, then looked away as if the sight of him was somehow painful. “You should go to bed. You look like you’ve had a long day.”

Sherlock made an affirmative sort of noise. He knew he should have something to eat, but his appetite had vanished with his good mood. Besides, getting out from under John’s hard gaze sounded preferable to food, anyway.

He changed into his softest t-shirt and pyjama bottoms, hearing John moving around the flat. Despite feeling as though he could fall over and be asleep in seconds, he stepped into the doorway of the kitchen and caught John’s eye.

“Are… are you coming to bed?”

John snorted. “I’m sleeping in the second bedroom.”

Sherlock felt a bowling ball-sized clump of dread fall into his stomach. Without a reply, he retreated.

He slid into bed, shivering at the chill of the sheets. As he settled down, his eyes were drawn again to the empty side.

Where John should be.

And as much as he knew he didn’t deserve it, he _wanted_ John there, wanted him to slide in next to Sherlock and curl around him as he used to. He wanted him to kiss Sherlock’s neck and whisper a soft “goodnight.”

He wanted John to be _his_ again.

But perhaps that wasn’t possible anymore. Perhaps Sherlock’s own foolishness and stubbornness had ruined this forever.

Not Sebastian, not John. Sherlock.

And he buried his face in the pillow and let himself softly sob.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeeeaah, sorry... I don't like the boys arguing either. My poor sweet cinnamon rolls... 
> 
> Also, my computer is being weird, so I'm posting this a day early. So this chapter isn't as polished as I'd like, but I'd rather get it out while I can.


	4. Going to Pay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John make a decision, but Sebastian makes one of his own.

Sherlock entered the kitchen the next morning, still as tired and drained as he had been when he had gone to bed the previous night. He had only gotten three hours of fitful sleep, by his estimation.

John was already there at the table, a cup of coffee in front of him. Sherlock gave him a nod that he didn’t return. Swallowing, Sherlock ducked his head and made himself a cup of tea. Only once it was finished and Sherlock had slid into the chair across from John did the other boy speak.

“I’ve been thinking,” he announced.   
  
Sherlock focused a bit too hard on stirring sugar into his tea as he nodded.

“I think we should tell Lestrade.”

That got Sherlock’s attention; he whipped his head up to look at John. “What?”

“Sherlock, he’s a police officer. He can help us.”

“Us?” Sherlock stammered. “You’re really going to help me?” 

John looked unimpressed. “Yeah, I really am. I’ve called in today and everything.” 

Sherlock felt his ears burn. “Oh.”

“So, as I was saying,” John frowned. “I think we need to go and tell him what’s going on. Surely he has resources to things, ways to find Sebastian, right?”

“We don’t need Lestrade,” Sherlock crossed his arms. “I have my own ways of finding people.”

“Really?” John’s voice dripped skepticism. “And what are these ways?”

“I have a few contacts in the homeless population of the area. I can ask them to track him down, subtly.”

“And why didn’t you do this before?” John asked.

Sherlock froze, heart pounding. If he were perfectly honest with himself, he was not sure why. “I… don’t know. I guess it didn’t seem like an urgent thing to do, because I didn’t realize he really was following me.”

“Sherlock,” John snapped. “He figured out where I work! Don’t you care about that?”

“I’m sorry!” Sherlock snapped back. “I don’t know what I was thinking, okay?”

Before either of them could speak again, however, Sherlock’s phone buzzed on the table. They looked at each other.

“Is it-?” John asked, voice fearful. Both lunged for it immediately, but Sherlock snatched it first, clicking it open.

“It’s Lestrade,” he sighed, shoulders sagging. “He’s asking me to come fill out some paperwork from the case…” He looked up at John. “Oh, yeah, by the way I took a case yesterday. So.”

John raised his eyebrows. “Oh.”

“I know, I know,” Sherlock rolled his eyes as he stood and made to grab his coat and shoes, trying to hide the twinge of pain and guilt he felt behind the sarcastic tone. “Another thing I haven’t told you about. Come on.”

“Wait, where are we going?” John asked. He stood too. “Are we going to talk to Lestrade, or are you going to be stubborn and do your stupid homeless network thing?”

Sherlock disguised his flinch as he swung on his coat. “Both, I suppose.”

 

 

* * *

 

  
  
Sherlock had felt his homeless network idea had been quite brilliant. Such an overlooked, anonymous population would have the ability to notice things no one else would, would know London’s secret places better than anyone, would be observant. The perfect, practically invisible force all for his own.

And the way to connect with them was just too easy. Give them a note wrapped in a bill or tucked into the cardboard sleeve of a coffee, and they would get their message. Later let them shake his hand in gratitude when he dropped a few coins in their cup and receive a reply. Simple.

Sherlock tried not to feel too pleased, though, as he and John stopped several times on their way and he slipped his contacts messages in various ways, and John looked increasingly impressed. But his boyfriend was angry with him, he repeated to himself. In the end, John was probably going to decide he hated Sherlock for this.

He had to swallow down a lump of emotion at the thought.

It took an hour of stiff silences and awkward walks before Sherlock felt he had passed enough messages, calls to action, to feel they would be able to find Sebastian. He turned to John, whose cheeks were now a bright shade of pink from the cold. Sherlock resisted the compulsion to kiss some warmth back into those rosy spots, forced himself to remember that such a move would be most unwelcome.

“Finished,” he said.

“Good,” John nodded, scoffing. “Let’s get to Scotland Yard. I’m freezing.”

Sherlock followed him down to the Tube, where they tucked themselves into the corner of a crowded car. John seemed to hate the close proximity this forced them into, and kept shifting his stance and grip on the pole they both grasped so as not to brush against Sherlock’s hand.

That sight sent any residual smugness at Sherlock’s own cleverness scurrying for cover underneath a layer of sadness and shame.

Look what he had done to them.

By the time they stepped off the elevator on Lestrade’s floor at New Scotland Yard, Sherlock had slipped back into the melancholy mood he’d awoken to. Meanwhile, John had slipped back to a comfortable five feet between them as they walked down the corridor to Lestrade’s office.

“Finally,” the detective greeted them as they knocked and entered. “What took you so long?”

“Something else came up,” Sherlock replied shortly. “What do I need to do?”

He glanced at John, who cocked an eyebrow at him.

“Well, you need to give your statement about yesterday, and then there’s some other paperwork you’ve been putting off,” Lestrade said. He glanced between them as he spoke, however, as if wondering what was off between them. “I swear, Sherlock, you’d be a much better consultant if you actually told my bosses what you did to solve these cases. I could maybe even make you official if you filled out these forms.” He smirked a bit, as though doubting such an event would ever occur.

“Yeah, Sherlock’s not the best at communicating,” John muttered under his breath.

Lestrade frowned but did not comment. “So, if you could get started on-”

A knock on the door interrupted him, though, and he rose and crossed the room to open it. He stuck his head out and exchanged a few low words with the person outside, then turned back.

“I’ve got to see to something, I’ll be right back,” he said in an apologetic tone. “The papers are right there on the corner of my desk.”

And he was gone. Sherlock and John stayed frozen for an instant before both rose in unison and moved forward.

“Tell me you know his password?” John darted around behind the desk to the computer.

Sherlock snorted as he joined him. “Of course I do.”

His fingers flew over the keyboard. Within seconds the computer was unlocked.

“How long do you reckon we have?” John asked, eyes on the door.

“Several minutes at least. Major case just landed on his desk, so to speak. He’s being filled in now by the Chief Superintendent, I expect. Still, you’d better watch the door.”

John nodded and positioned himself next to the door, peering out at the corridor through the gaps in the drawn blinds.

Sherlock continued to work for several minutes. “Ah ha,” he said with a small grin of satisfaction. “Now we’re in. Alright, Baker Street, half seven yesterday…”

“What’s that? CCTV?” John asked. 

Sherlock nodded, too focused to speak.

“Can you really track him that way? I thought that sort of thing only worked in films.”

“I can access a limited number of cameras right now, though if I really want more, I’ll have to request the feeds from their owners. Too many CCTVs in this city are privately owned, or by TfL or private businesses. But since we’re using his computer, I can send requests using his information. It’ll take time, but we should be able to find him. And then, I suppose, confront him or just report him to his parole officer. And my homeless network will likely find some useful information if this takes too long.”

“This is all probably rather illegal.” John had stepped closer, gazing over Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock shifted to accommodate him, mostly because John hadn’t been so close for days.

“I’ve been the most important asset on ten cases in eight weeks for the man,” Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. “He wouldn’t want to lose that. Besides, this is for a good cause.”

“What is?”

Both whirled to stare at the door. Lestrade stood there, eyebrows raised.

“Er…” John began.

“Nothing,” Sherlock stammered.

Lestrade closed to door behind him, crossed to the desk, and dropped a few files onto it. Then, he crossed his arms and surveyed Sherlock and John.

“What’s going on?”

They glanced at one another, still thrown by being caught out like this. Sherlock couldn’t even muster any irritation at John for abandoning his guard duties through his surprise and fear.

“I…” he tried again, forcing himself to meet Lestrade’s stern gaze. “This is for a case.”

“What case? I haven’t given you any new ones.”

“I know. It’s a… private case.”

“Oh? And so you thought that justified breaking into my computer?”

“I…” But Sherlock’s heart was pounding so hard he couldn’t hear himself think, let alone form a coherent answer to appease the man.

“It’s personal,” John cut in before he could try again. “Sherlock’s being followed and threatened. We’re trying to find where he is so we can get him locked up again.” As he spoke, he shot an annoyed look at Sherlock.

Lestrade’s severe look faded somewhat and morphed into an expression of concern. “Again?” he echoed. “What do you mean, again? Who’s after you?”

Sherlock wrapped his arms around himself as John explained. He felt his throat tightening once more. He’d been such an idiot, not telling Lestrade in the first place. Why hadn’t he? Why had he been such a fool? Why hadn’t he done something? An entire month, and Sherlock Holmes - the consulting detective with resources and plenty of help at his fingertips - had not done a single thing to get himself out of this situation?

What was wrong with him?

His self-hating thoughts were interrupted by a hand on his shoulder. He looked over to find Lestrade at his side, his touch reassuring.

“I don’t think that’s true,” he was saying to John, whose stance was still annoyed.

“Well, wait until you read the texts,” John snapped. Sherlock felt a twinge of surprise; John usually spoke with the utmost respect to Lestrade. This tone, hard and uncompromising, was something new.

“I doubt they’ll change my mind,” Lestrade replied, in much more gentle a voice than John’s.

John bit his lip. He glanced at Sherlock, though his look betrayed little emotion. Then, before Sherlock could gain the courage to speak again, to apologize on his knees until John forgave him, a phone pinged.

Sherlock tensed, but it was John who responded, pulling his own mobile from his pocket. He frowned as he read the text.

“Damn. I need to head to the hospital. Dr. Willner,” he paused and looked up, then elaborated for Lestrade’s benefit. “She’s the doctor I’m shadowing. Anyway, she really says they could use the manpower. Guess there was a bad car accident not far from Bart’s. Will you be okay here, or should I tell her I can make it? It’d only be for a few hours. Unless you need me to stay?” 

A pause. Sherlock and Lestrade glanced at each other. Then, the latter shook his head, and Sherlock made a negative noise.

“Okay,” John muttered. “Good. Fine. See you later. Don’t go doing anything else stupid.”

It was the most short and terse Sherlock had ever seen John behave with Lestrade, and indeed, with himself. He felt a bit baffled; John had been all for going to Scotland Yard and getting Lestrade in the loop so the three of them could stop Sebastian, and now he was leaping upon the first opportunity to get out? Sherlock did not, for the life of him, understand his boyfriend right now.

And wasn’t that a sobering thought?

Sherlock, for all his deductive powers, could not determine what his own boyfriend might be thinking anymore.

Once again, the thought occurred to him: what had he done to them? Before, understanding John had been nearly as simple as comprehending his own thoughts. He had known John so well; they had been best friends, they had been lovers, they had fit each other so well.

Now, though…

Sherlock was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he barely noticed that John left the room, only surfacing when the DI then immediately turned to Sherlock.

“You alright?” he asked.

“Fine,” Sherlock said, and he instantly wished his voice hadn’t sounded so small.

“Sherlock, listen. This is not your fault, alright?”

Sherlock met his gaze. He appeared earnest, open. “Of course it is.”

Lestrade shook his head. “No, it isn’t. Don’t blame yourself. You didn’t ask for any of this to happen.”

“I should have come to you,” Sherlock tried again to explain. “I should have told you, or someone. But I,.. guess I thought I could handle it. I thought I wouldn’t have to bother anyone else. I thought it wasn’t a problem for anyone else.”

“Sherlock.” Lestrade gripped his shoulders, a soft expression on his face. “You are not to blame here. You’re being stalked and intimidated, and it is not your fault. You have done nothing wrong. I’m going to help you fix this. Okay?”

Sherlock nodded, not quite believing it yet but glad of the support nonetheless. Lestrade released him and gestured for him to pull up a chair next to him. They both sat, facing the computer screen.

“Well, alright, you did one thing wrong,” Lestrade conceded with a note of amusement in his voice now. “You shouldn’t have broken into my computer, but I’ll let it slide just this once. You’re right, it is for a good cause.”

Sherlock managed a small smile. 

“John’s not happy, I see.”

He stiffened. “No, he isn’t.”

Lestrade’s eyes flashed. “He’s treating you okay, though, right?”

Sherlock blinked. “Yeah. He yelled a bit, but that’s all.” Then, in response to the obvious worry and skepticism on the other’s face and realizing what he was probably thinking, added, “He’s never hit me, Lestrade. He would never.”

“I wasn’t necessarily suggesting that, though it’s good to know. Puts my mind a little bit at ease. It’s just…” He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. “If you need to talk-”

“Right, right, fine,” Sherlock said quickly.

Lestrade nodded. “Good. Okay.”  
  
They both turned back to the computer, which still showed the CCTV screens.

“Now, where did you see him? I’ll see what I can do to trace him. You’ll also need to give me your phone so I can check about using the number to find him.”

Sherlock handed it over. “I doubt you’ll find anything using it. I suspect he’s using a burner phone so we can’t trace it.”

Lestrade, scrolling through the messages, merely raised his eyebrows. “He sounds pretty confident you aren’t going to move to stop him, though. He might be too cocky and using a proper phone because he thinks you’re going to let him get away with it.”

Sherlock shrugged, trying not to betray the fear that shot through him in response to the words. “I guess you can find that out by contacting his parole officer, right?”

“Yeah,” Lestrade looked up and gave him a reassuring smile that was only partially effective. “Listen, this isn’t going to be difficult. I’ve seen cases like this, where the stalker is so intent on just terrorizing their victim that they make stupid mistakes. Overconfidence can be just as helpful as outright stupidity when it comes to solving cases. Though it does help to have the information sooner rather than later. Not saying you’ve done anything wrong,” he added quickly when Sherlock ducked his head again, the shame welling up once more with a vengeance. “I’m just saying people are often too scared to say anything, in case they’re accused of overreacting or making it up.”

“I’m not some helpless-” Sherlock began, but at that moment, a noise cut him off and closed off his throat.

_Buzzzzz_.

Silence cut through the room like a hot knife. Both men froze, eyes dropping to Sherlock’s phone where it rested on the desk between them.

Sherlock hand moved of its own accord to pick it up. He flinched when he saw the name UNKNOWN again lighting up the screen. It was Sebastian.

“Who is it? What does it say?” the other man asked.

Sherlock unlocked the screen with a trembling thumb and clicked on the messages icon with its little red notification bubble. He read the text that awaited him.

**U wanna play that game Sherlock? Wanna turn me in? Fine. but ur little boyfriend is going to pay**

Moments later, another message swooped in after the first. A picture.

The inside of a doctor’s office, the kind that had a few desks crammed inside one room for interns’ use. Sherlock recognized a picture on the tiny desk nearest the camera. Himself, laughing up at someone. It had been taken almost a year ago on the Southbank, when he and John had spent a day wandering along the Thames stealing kisses between mouthfuls of street-vendor cinnamon peanuts.

In other words, this was John’s desk.

And there, in a small mirror on the opposite wall, was Sebastian’s reflection. He was grinning, knowing full well he could be seen, wanting to be seen.

Somehow, Sebastian had gotten into Bart’s. And he was waiting for John.

One last text arrived. Sherlock tilted the phone even farther away from Lestrade as he read it.

**Meet me. Alone. Or things won’t end well for your relationship**

“Sherlock?” Lestrade asked. “What is it?”

He locked the phone and shrugged, casual as could be. “False alarm. It was from a study partner from one of my classes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might have noticed the chapter count went up. I decided I needed one more, because the next bit isn't quite done, and I wanted to stay on schedule and post something today. So this one's a bit of a cliffhanger (sorry!), but the next part will come in about a week. 
> 
> I might be persuaded to get it posted even quicker by comments and kudos though ;)


	5. I Am Not a Freak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock takes a big risk, but the alternative - John's safety - is not something he can abide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you got a notification yesterday about this chapter being posted (I have no idea if anyone's subscribed to this) I'm sorry. I prematurely hit post, even though I hadn't actually put the full text in so I had to scramble to take it down. Sorry if this resulted in any confusion!

John had been entirely behind the plan to go to Scotland Yard, talk to Lestrade and whoever else might be willing to help them, and then stop Sebastian. He had not, however, been entirely behind the plan to try using Sherlock’s homeless network. How was Sherlock to know that would even work? How did he know these people were not criminals themselves, or friends of Sebastian’s? So John had fumed the entire time Sherlock passed messages, and by the time they had arrived in Lestrade’s office, he felt his temper once again simmering far too near the surface.

Actually being at  the Yard had presented a whole other set of issues. Firstly, John had been unaware Sherlock wanted to _hack into the detective’s computer_. Sure, it probably would have worked, but it was still illegal. Couldn’t Sherlock be sensible about dealing with this? His boyfriend’s reckless methods had only served to irritate John more.

Nor had talking with Lestrade helped matters, unfortunately. He had felt his hackles rising while he explained to the DI what was going on. Sherlock hadn’t spoken up, which was something John had not failed to notice. Then, when Lestrade had responded to the situation with so much concern, John had had to get out of there.

Why was he the only one who could see how badly Sherlock had handled this? Why wasn’t Lestrade even upset about Sherlock breaking into his computer?

The text from Dr. Willner had felt like a blessing from on high, and John dashed out of there, a mixture of relief and irritation fighting for dominance, leaving him confused and upset.

His mood had been that way - a rather angry, roiling mass - ever since finding out about the texts. How could Sherlock have betrayed him like this? How could he have hidden such an important thing from his boyfriend?

Almost twenty-four hours later, he still could hardly believe it. Sherlock had lied to him. For an entire _month_ , he had concealed that a convicted criminal was stalking him. And stalking John as well. For four whole weeks, Sherlock had elected to hide this information from John, acting as though everything were alright in their lives.

Well, perhaps not everything. John frowned as he climbed up the stairs leading from the Tube, the tall form of Bart’s looming larger and larger as he neared street level. He did have to admit his schedule had prevented him from relaxing as much as he’d used to. He and Sherlock hadn’t been spending as much time together as maybe they should have been. But, he reminded himself as he shoved his hand into his pocket for his ID badge - rather more aggressively than strictly necessary - that did not excuse Sherlock’s behavior.

Had it been John, he would have told Sherlock. This matter concerned them both; both should have all the information. If it had been John being texted and intimidated, he would have told Sherlock that first day, then reported Sebastian to the police at once. He, unlike Sherlock, wouldn’t have waited until Sebastian found out where they lived.

What the hell had Sherlock been thinking?

Still fuming, he entered the building, clipping his ID onto his shirt. He waved to the receptionist, who nodded back. He was just about to head to A&E to check in with his supervisor when he realized… he was wearing the wrong ID badge. This was his university ID, not Bart’s. He cursed under his breath and shot a glance at his watch. He would have to head up to his desk and grab the right one. He’d be cutting it close, but ah well. He was covering for someone; that had to give him some kudos.

The elevator seemed to take ages, but it probably only seemed that way because John was irritated, he rationalized. He took a breath. _Calm down, Watson. You’re at work. Lestrade can deal with helping Sherlock now_.

The doors of the lift at last swung open, and John stepped out and headed down the corridor. His desk was crammed in a room with those of the other interns, but at least it was something to call his own. Hopefully he really had left the ID there…

However, his hand had barely wrapped around the doorknob when someone grabbed his shoulder and yanked him backward.

 

 

* * *

  


Sherlock stood before a door, trepidation sending flutterings through his body. He took a deep breath, then surveyed the words on his phone.

Shezza, Wiggy here. U wanted some info on Sebastian Moran yeah?

_Yes, I did. What did you find out?_

I found him. He was near St. Bart’s but he went inside a while ago. Hasn’t come out, at least not from the same way he went in.

Here, hang on.

[jpg file attachment]

This is him right?

_Yes. Thanks._

He took another breath, fighting to concentrate against the aggressive hammering of his heart. Another set of texts, which he dreaded even more than Wiggy’s visceral proof that Sebastian was indeed in a position to hurt his John, sat above this one. But one last time, he opened it and read.

_Don’t hurt him, Sebastian. I’ll meet you._

**Ain’t bringing police with u right?**

_Of course not._

**But ur friends with them arent u?**

_I am, but I’ve left them behind. They don’t know what’s going on. I went to Scotland Yard to fill out some paperwork, not about this. So. Where should I meet you?_

**I dont wanna be interrupted. Meet me on the roof of Barts or ill head downstairs and find ur little bf. I figure if u dont show maybe he’ll wanna talk, if he doesn’t itll be a shame for u. Same if u show up with police…**

The threat to John sent shivers coursing through Sherlock. Steeling himself, he pushed on the door and stepped through. As the door opened, a sign affixed to it swung from side to side, its message “Roof Access - Authorized Personnel Only” blurred from the motion.

Sebastian Moran stood silhouetted against the sky, leaning against an air-conditioning unit with his arms crossed. This marked the first time Sherlock had seen him up close - and looking like himself, at least - since the time he’d broken into Sherlock’s flat and attacked him. He looked more haggard, rougher somehow. His dark hair and eyes gave his face an almost shadowed look, which was probably helped along by his fierce glare.

“Long time, Holmes,” he said. It sounded so casual, as if they were old friends who had bumped into one another on the street.

“What do you want, Sebastian?” Sherlock asked. He made sure to keep well out of arm’s reach, even as he approached the man. He got about ten feet away then stopped, watching warily.

“I want to talk to you.” Sebastian stood up straight though he kept his arms crossed. “I see you didn’t bring police.”

Sherlock shook his head, then glanced around. London stretched out before them, but this was the tallest building nearby, giving it an isolated feeling. “How long have you been waiting up here?”

Sebastian shrugged. “Just a couple minutes. You were quick. I barely got to admire the scenery.”

Sherlock tilted his head, satisfied with the response. “What did you want to discuss?” The sooner he could get to the point Sebastian wanted to make, the better.

“Well, you’ve been a bit evasive on the phone,” Sebastian raised an eyebrow and stepped closer to Sherlock, eyeing him in a way that sent a shiver down Sherlock’s spine. “Didn’t want your little boyfriend seeing some compromising texts?”

“John doesn’t go through my phone,” Sherlock said, sidestepping Sebastian as he took another few paces forward. “And I didn’t let him know about this.”

“He doesn’t check up on you? Even though you’ve been texting me for weeks? Some relationship.” Sebastian smirked, a wicked glint in his dark brown eyes. Up close, they looked almost black. They unnerved Sherlock.

“You don’t know anything about us,” Sherlock snapped. “Besides, it’s none of your business, and that cannot be what you wanted to discuss with me on a rooftop. Out with it.”

“Now, hang on,” Sebastian moved closer again, and this time, Sherlock found himself unable to move away; his back came in contact with another air conditioning unit. He slid to the side in an effort to get around Sebastian. “I just wanted to thank you for not tipping him off. Woulda made my job a lot harder if he’d come after me. Although, I guess he didn’t even notice this was going on. He doesn’t even care about you enough to notice.” Then, he smirked, an unpleasant expression. “Scared, Holmes? Scared of what I was planning to do to you? Or was it just that you thought little Johnny wouldn’t help you?”

Sherlock swallowed. “I…”

“You could have told him, but you didn’t. What an awful boyfriend. You always were a freak, a loner. No wonder you didn’t tell him about me. You weirdo, you wanted to deal with me all on your own, didn’t you?”

“I’m not-” Sherlock began, but his feeble protest was cut off in a soft gasp as Sebastian made a swift movement forward.

“I’ve been thinking about you for months, Sherlock Holmes. How you and your freakish meddling ruined me. If you hadn’t pried, I wouldn’t have had to come to your flat, you wouldn’t have got me arrested. You have any idea what prison is like? What it does to you? What it teaches you about people and yourself? I learned there, Holmes, that people are terrible. Every single one.

“I waited, acted the part, like a good little prisoner. But I didn’t forget about you. When I got out, I wondered where to find you. I didn’t think you’d come to me.” He grinned, though it reminded Sherlock more of a tiger baring its teeth.

“You showed up at that stupid carnival, all snuggly with your precious boyfriend, and I just couldn’t resist. Your interfering arse got me locked up, and you didn’t deserve to be happy like that! I decided I needed to make you _pay_!”

He snarled the last word, and Sherlock took the chance to dodge to the side. He darted back toward the door leading to the stairs, but Sebastian latched a hand around his arm. His grip was tight and sharp from long nails, and Sherlock sucked in a breath and stilled.

“Ah, ah,” Sebastian growled, pulling Sherlock back toward him. “I’ve wanted payback for ages, I’m not letting you get away. You’ve got no one to save you. No protective little boyfriend to come swooping in like the first time, eh? No trick kick to get me off of you like last time? No cop coming to arrest me? Just you and me.”   
“What are you going to do to me?” Sherlock asked, voice softer than he had hoped.

“I thought I’d show you a bit of what I learned in prison,” he hissed, predatory ferocity in every syllable. “You messed up little freak, you deserve it.”

Despite his terror, his pounding heart, his eyes that were beginning to water, Sherlock felt anger surge up within him at the words.

He yanked his arm out of Sebastian’s grip, a move he suspected only worked because the other man had not expected him to fight back. He blocked Sebastian’s jab, one of the old self-defense lessons John had once given him coming back to him.

“I am not a freak,” he whispered.

In answer, Sebastian glared and launched himself forward. Sherlock stumbled back, trying to slip past as the other reached for him, but he quickly realized Sebastian was too tall, too fast, too angry, for that to work. Sebastian seized Sherlock around the waist and threw him, hard. Sherlock fell, skidded a few feet, and felt his shoulder collide with brick.

The ledge of the roof.

He turned to find Sebastian stalking toward him. He scrambled to curl in on himself as the man who had caused such distress and pain bent down and looked at him.

“You want to keep fighting? Or do you want to avoid pain for a while? I won’t have to hurt you if you don’t make me.”

Sherlock gulped, eyes still stinging. Sebastian snorted.

“Pathetic,” he spat. “Maybe I should play with you elsewhere,” he glanced around, as if aware for the first time that some of the buildings a distance away were taller than this one, that people in those windows might be able to see what was going on. “Nice spot for it, but I think some privacy would be better.”

Sherlock tensed. “No…”

“Yes.” Sebastian seized Sherlock’s arm and yanked him back to standing. “You’re coming with me.”

“No!” Sherlock repeated. His struggling intensified, but was to no avail; Sebastian’s grip was too strong.

“Yes,” he hissed, that rapacious tone returning with even more potency. “Remember, I can go downstairs and grab your little Johnny. I can do everything I want to do to you to him instead.”

Sherlock froze. “Please,” he whispered.

“Come on,” Sebastian said, and this time, to add to the threat his hands were conveying, he reached into his pocket. From within it, he extracted a knife, which he flicked open and waved before Sherlock’s eyes. In response, Sherlock stepped back. He had to glance over his shoulder, however, to make sure he didn’t get too close to the edge of the roof again. Sebastian took the opportunity to seize him, the knife moving to the exposed skin of his neck. Sherlock stiffened, facing him.

“Don’t,” Sherlock breathed, and Sebastian let out a horrible laugh.

“What are you going to do about it?” he grinned. “You’re all alone up here! It’s just you and me!”

Though terrified, that made one side of Sherlock’s mouth twitch upwards.

“Not exactly,” another voice said.

  


* * *

  


_Sherlock locked the phone and shrugged, casual as could be. “False alarm. It was from a study partner from one of my classes.” He slid the phone back into his pocket, attempting to disguise the way his hands had begun to shake._

_Lestrade leaned against his desk, staring at Sherlock with his eyebrows raised. Sherlock froze. The DI wasn’t fooled, and they both knew it._

_“Sherlock,” he said softly. “What did Sebastian say?”_

_The younger man swallowed hard and extracted the phone again. “Here.”_

_Lestrade read the messages, and his eyes widened. He handed it back silently, and they stared at one another for a moment._

_"You don't have to meet him,” Lestrade said urgently. “I have enough circumstantial evidence from what you told me and from the texts - especially this new one threatening John. I can bring Sebastian in for questioning."_

_But Sherlock shook his head. "You probably won't be able to trace the phone directly to him, at least not right away. I'll bet anything it's a burner. The only evidence you have against him right now is my word. Besides, if I don't do this..." he swallowed. "He's at Bart's. He’ll be able to get to John faster than I can. I have to do this." After a pause, he drew himself up to his full height. "I have to face him, Lestrade. I need to confront him, for John and for myself."_

_Lestrade stared at him for several drawn out seconds, then sighed. "Fine. But I'm coming with you in case this gets even worse."_

_“I…”_

_“We’re going to stop him, Sherlock.” His voice was soft but fierce and determined as he cut across the feeble protest._

_Sherlock hesitated at the use of the word ‘we.’ Without meaning to, he glanced down at the files Lestrade had brought in for his new case. “I… But… you just got promoted. You… you don’t have to do this. You just got that big case...”_

_“Don’t worry about that, kid,” Lestrade waved a dismissive hand in the direction of the files as well. “This is more important. I can’t have my best consultant’s life ruined like this. Come on.”_

_After a brief pause, Sherlock acquiesced with a brief bob of his head. So together they swept out the door. And in spite of Sherlock’s bounding heart, he felt a surge of gratitude toward the detective inspector at his side, for showing him he did not have to do this alone. With Lestrade, maybe it would not be too late for Sherlock to help John._

 

 

* * *

  


Sebastian whipped his head around at the sound of the newcomer’s voice, and he could not suppress a small smile. Out from behind the brick structure that held the doorway, emerged Lestrade. His badge was clutched in his hand, and he approached with a wary step.

Upon seeing the detective inspector, Sebastian moved suddenly and dealt Sherlock a hard blow to the stomach. Sherlock doubled over, gasping, and so was powerless to stop his adversary. So he ended up facing the DI, the knife against his Adam’s apple, Sebastian just behind him.

“Stay back,” Sebastian snarled.

“Alright, alright,” Lestrade said, voice low and calm. He raised his hands to shoulder height and stopped, ten feet away from the pair. “Let’s talk about this.”

“Shut up!” Sebastian barked, then turned his head so his lips were against Sherlock’s ear. “You said you didn’t bring the police.”   
“I lied,” Sherlock murmured, trying not to move against the cool metal.

“You little shit.” He tightened his other hand, which had Sherlock’s arm pinned behind his back. “Though I see your beloved Johnny didn’t come. Must not have cared.”

Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath as Sebastian moved the knife and forced his chin upward. But he also smirked a little as yet another voice sounded out, strong in the silent air.

“Hello, Sebastian.”

 

 

* * *

  


_John’s hand had barely wrapped around the doorknob when someone grabbed his shoulder and yanked him backward. Staggering, he cried out and whirled around._

_“Sher-?” he started to exclaim, but the taller man pressed a hand over his mouth._

_“Shh,” he hissed with a finger to his own lips._

_John stared at him with wide eyes, then allowed himself to be dragged down to the end of the corridor._

_Once far enough away from the offending door, Sherlock released him and grabbed his arms. “John, are you alright?”_

_“Of… of course I am,” John frowned. “What are you doing here? What’s going on? And don’t grab me like that; you nearly gave me a heart attack!”_

_Sherlock ignored him in favor of staring fixedly back down the corridor at the door to John’s office._

_“What?” John snapped. “What’s going on? I’ve got to get back downstairs, I just came up here to get-”_

_“Keep your voice down,” Sherlock’s tone was quietly intense, though he felt something bordering on panic. That seemed to calm John. Sherlock could tell his was thinking there must be more to this than Sherlock coming to his work to pester him for help on the case as he’d promised._

_“Okay,” he whispered. “What’s wrong?”_

_Sherlock whipped his gaze back to stare at him. “Sebastian’s here. He’s told me to meet with him alone.”_

_“What? You can’t do that!” John whisper-yelled._

_“Really?” Sherlock rolled his eyes. Sarcasm always was his favorite defense mechanism. “And here I was planning to go all alone and face someone who’s been stalking me and threatened to hurt my boyfriend if I didn’t cooperate.”_

_John appeared to bite back a retort as he parsed the last few words. “What?”_

_Sherlock didn’t respond; he hardly needed to. He could tell John understood the gravity of the situation. “So come on. Will you help me? Lestrade’s getting into position, but… I mean, you said you would help too…”_

_John was nodding in agreement before Sherlock reached the end of the sentence. “Yeah, alright, but… I don’t think you should just go confront him. He’s so much bigger than you. Maybe let me talk to him…”_

_“No,” Sherlock shook his head. “You don’t need to save me. Just… be here for me, for this.” He bit his lip in uncertainty._

_John surveyed him a moment. “Let’s get that bastard.”_

 

 

* * *

  


John stepped out from behind the very air-conditioning unit against which Sebastian had been leaning when Sherlock had first come onto the roof. His fists were clenched at his sides, and his dark blue eyes were piercing in their anger. Against the backdrop of the London skyline, he had never looked so dramatic or intimidating. Had Sherlock been able to do so, he might have swooned.

“Let him go,” John growled.

Sebastian gave a roar and dragged Sherlock farther toward the edge of the roof. Sherlock cried out and attempted to twist away, but Sebastian’s arm was too tight around his neck. In seconds, he had Sherlock choking as he tightened his grip. The knife was still there, cold and sharp, on his skin.

Spluttering and terrified, Sherlock barely noticed the backs of his legs hit the roof’s ledge. When it sunk in a moment later, his mind went into overdrive at the same instant his heart too went haywire. He could hear both John and Lestrade crying out.

Trajectories, angles, wind speeds, and equations flashed through Sherlock’s head. None had positive outcomes for him, if he were to fall. The results were even worse if he were thrown.

He gagged as he attempted to force his fingers between his own neck and Sebastian’s arm. He had to get away, before he lost consciousness or his balance, or Sebastian let the knife move. They were teetering, and Sebastian was yelling something, and Lestrade was yelling back. John too was speaking, angry and tense, but Sherlock could barely hear anything anymore over the roaring in his ears, the pounding of his heart, and the gasps of his mouth. He couldn’t get enough air, though soon, if he really did go over that roof, he would have far too much of it.

“John-” he choked.

Too much. Too much yelling, pain, confusion. Sherlock closed his eyes and feebly continued to fight. He kicked at Sebastian, but the man hardly flinched. He couldn’t breathe. When he opened his eyes a second later, he realized he also couldn’t see, his vision spotty and blurred.

“John,” he whispered again, even while his eyelids fluttered.

And then a huge something slammed into them both, from the side. And then, perhaps by some miracle, Sebastian’s weight and the knife were both gone. And then Sherlock could open his mouth and _breathe_.

He stumbled, pushed away from the ledge of the roof, and collapsed onto his knees several feet away. He felt light-headed, dizzy, and vaguely sick. His limbs shook, though he ignored everything else around him in favor of sucking in as much air as he could.

Maybe a minute later, he felt less desperate to inhale, and looked around. Sebastian lay spread-eagled on the rooftop, arms behind his back. Lestrade, it seemed, had tackled him from the side in a desperate attempt to get him off Sherlock. Luckily, it had worked, and now the inspector was latching cuffs around the man’s wrists.

“Get off!” Sebastian spat feebly, even as Lestrade secured him. He lifted his head and glared daggers at Sherlock. Though the real weapon lay several feet away, abandoned. A small streak of blood dabbled its gleaming surface, and Sherlock lifted a hand to his own neck. A sticky drop trickled down and pooled in his collarbone, and he shuddered. A few inches to the side…

“You freak! I’ll get you for this! I’ll-” Sebastian grunted as Lestrade planted his knee in his back.

“Shut up!” Lestrade barked.

“Yes do shut up, Sebastian,” Sherlock said. His throat felt scratchy and weak, but his resolve stood firm. “I’m not a freak.”

Sebastian glared but said nothing.

“You alright, kid?” Lestrade asked, anxious gaze seeking his consultant’s.

Sherlock managed a small nod, then realized what was missing from the picture.

“John-?” His head rotated on a swivel as he sought the medical student. “John?”

He crouched a few feet away, having apparently thrown himself forward to catch Sherlock, though he had stopped himself at the last moment. Now, he was waiting, eyes wide with fear and concern, for Sherlock to acknowledge him. At the sound of his name, his expression crumpled.

“Sherlock,” he breathed, then scrambled forward and yanked Sherlock into an embrace.

Sherlock, though still shaking and feeling as though he might be sick, returned it. John was warm, and Sherlock was safe, and it was _finally_ over.

“Are you okay?” John asked from where his face was buried in the crook of Sherlock’s neck. “Is it bad?”

Sherlock shook his head as he at last felt his speeding heart begin to calm.

“Wait, was that answer to the first question or the second?” John looked up at him with worry, though hints of amusement were beginning to infect his expression.

Sherlock managed a soft chuckle. “The second. He barely nicked me.”

John let out a groan of relief and crushed Sherlock back against him. “Good,” he whispered.

Sherlock let out a feeble cough but clung all the tighter to John. Even as his boyfriend attempted to pull back and examine his cut, even as John began to speak rather frantically about going downstairs to get a doctor, Sherlock still held onto him. His heart rate was slowing to a safe pace, his lungs were screaming less, his neck was not throbbing as much, but his mind was still racing. One thought dominated above the others.

 _Don’t leave me, please. Don’t go. I’m sorry, please, please don’t leave me_.

 

 

* * *

  


John stared over at Sherlock, who was rubbing at a piece of gauze on his neck and was nodding in response to something Lestrade was saying. Sebastian had been taken away in a squad car a few minutes ago, and John had had to resist flipping him the bird as the vehicle had pulled away. Lestrade’s backup had arrived just a few minutes too late, delayed by the car accident that had brought John to Bart’s in the first place.

John sighed. Had it not been for Lestrade’s quick thinking and somewhat foolhardy action… Well. What could have happened was not something John wanted to consider in any detail.

John had given his statement while Dr. Willner examined Sherlock; now the consulting detective had been declared without any serious damage and was giving his. He was pressing charges, he’d told John that much before they’d been separated, and he would testify if he had to. Hopefully, John thought to himself, Sebastian would be locked away for longer this time, and never bother them again.

Then again, John mused, even if he did come to find them again, John knew he would be ready. And he had a feeling Lestrade would as well.

At least Lestrade had gotten to tackle the man. John hadn’t even gotten a single punch in. He tried not to feel too bitter about it.

He stood just as Lestrade flipped his notebook closed and approached the two men. Lestrade saw him coming first and, in a subtle move but still noticeable, stepped just in front of Sherlock.

“He’s pretty tired,” Lestrade said. “He needs to go home and rest. Looks like he barely got any sleep last night.

John nodded. “Alright. I’ll take him home.” Dr. Willner had been gracious enough to let him off for the rest of the day, and the next day, once he had explained what was going on.

“This isn’t his fault,” Lestrade pressed, expression hard.

John pressed his lips together and didn’t rise to the obvious challenge the DI’s words implied. “Can I… can I have him back now? Are you done talking with him?”

Lestrade peered intently into John’s eyes for another few moments, during which John tried not to squirm, then stood back to let him pass.

Sherlock stepped close but did not meet John’s gaze. “Let’s go,” he murmured, voice still a little hoarse and feeble.

“Actually,” Lestrade called before they got more than a few steps away. “Let me drive you. The Tube will be busy.”

It wasn’t exactly peak hours, but John agreed anyway. He had a distinct feeling Sherlock had told the DI that they had fought the previous night, and so Lestrade wanted to keep an eye on them as long as possible. Not that he needed to; John felt like napping, not yelling.

They all piled into Lestrade’s car. John had a peripheral view of Sherlock, who was still quiet as they set off. He watched as his boyfriend curled in on himself and stared out the window. His shoulders hunched away from John.

As they sat in silence and watched London go by, John thought back their first fight as a couple, which felt like eons ago now. It had happened a month or so into their relationship, long before they had even broached the subject of moving in together. He could not now recall what they had even argued about, but he knew that fight had also ended in slammed doors and sleeping apart. The next morning, Sherlock had shown up on his doorstep with a single coffee clutched in his hand, a plaintive expression on his face, and a soft apology on his lips. John remembered how Sherlock had tried to say it was okay if they didn’t date anymore, that he had just wanted to say sorry. He remembered how Sherlock had started to leave but how he, John, had grabbed his hand and pulled him inside. He remembered the kisses that had ensued and how when they’d broken apart, Sherlock had looked at him with such relief that John had wanted to bundle him up in an embrace so tight he’d never ever doubt John wanted him. He remembered the affection and protectiveness that had surged within him as he’d held Sherlock close.

The past day or so, though, John had forgotten those feelings. Or rather, he thought, he had pushed them away, buried them beneath all his anger and resentment and fear.

So what, he had thought in his angrier moments the last few hours. So what if those emotions seemed distant and inaccessible?

Now, though, as he thought of the events on the rooftop and how Sherlock had looked at him with wide eyes and fear emanating from every inch of him, they all came rushing back. All the protectiveness and affection and tenderness he had felt surged up within him, making his chest constrict with worry, concern, love. Because Sherlock had looked _terrified_ as he had struggled with Sebastian, shaking all over and pulling at his captor and crying out in pain.

And the only thing he’d said had been John’s name. Even choked, dragged, and held at knifepoint at the edge of a rooftop, he had just said John’s name.

But he lied to you, a small part of John’s mind reminded him. He had hidden the texts, the stalking, the threats. If he really cared about the relationship, would he have done that?

The car ride was silent, until Lestrade pulled up to the door of their flat. Sherlock climbed out with a soft murmured goodbye, but Lestrade had only nodded stiffly in response to John’s farewell, then drove away.

Together, Sherlock and John entered the flat and slipped upstairs before Mrs. Hudson could hear and come fussing over them. Telling her about what happened could wait until another day, both decided with only a glance at the other. Up in the flat, Sherlock slipped away into the bedroom without another word. John stood in the sitting room, listening. He heard soft noises of running water, the laundry basket lid lifting and thumping back down, then the rustling of sheets and creak of springs as Sherlock climbed into bed. He thought he heard Sherlock sniffle as he settled down, and wondered with a jolt if the younger man was fighting off tears.

And again, the question prodded at John’s mind. Would Sherlock have hidden his problems from John if their relationship meant anything?

Maybe so, John mused. He huffed out a harsh breath and dropped onto the sofa with a flump. He had to think this through, more calmly now that it was over and his anger and adrenaline had faded. Sherlock had been scared for a month, afraid and taunted and generally creeped out for four weeks. And where had John been? At work, school, and work again. Not at home, not asking how Sherlock was, not wondering what was new with him. It was a small wonder Sherlock hadn’t yelled at him, dragged him home, begged him to have a real conversation. Combine Sherlock’s isolation with his increasing fright, and it was no surprise, really, that he had decided not to say anything.

Sherlock always had been reserved, due to years of teasing in school. He’d learned to bottle up his feelings and deal with things on his own. Until John. For some magical, wonderful reason, Sherlock had opened up to John, within mere months of knowing him. Even after convincing himself he just might be a freak like everyone said, he let himself show John who he was. And for the entirety of their relationship, John had never stopped feeling grateful.

Because Sherlock was incredible. His mind, the things he did and thought, were extraordinary. He felt so deeply, John had realized early on. He pretended not to care about people, about normal societal expectations and behaviors, but only because he cared _so much_. He tried to distance himself from the norm, but only to guard his fragile, oft-stomped upon heart.

And John himself had done some of that stomping lately.

He sighed and buried his face in his hands. At the moment, he had half a mind to go into the bedroom, wake Sherlock, and kiss him until he smiled again. On the other hand… John had a lot of thinking to do. He had neglected his boyfriend, but in turn Sherlock had hidden major truths from him.

Could they really fix this?

John didn’t think he knew the answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the excessive use of italics in this chapter, I just wanted to make it clearer that those two scenes did not take place in the present. If you were confused about what happened when, please let me know, and I'll explain/try to fix it! 
> 
> Stay tuned for the epilogue in a few days!


	6. My So Much More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next morning, Sherlock and John talk.

Sherlock woke feeling sluggish and disoriented. Several long, fuzzy moments passed before the memories of the previous day returned to him, flashing bright against his eyelids like the ghostly after-images of blinking light bulbs.

Scotland Yard… Sebastian’s threats to John… the roof… the knife…

He shuddered and felt at his throat. The thin cut on his neck was cleaned and bandaged, but he could still feel the ridge marring his usually smooth skin. It made him grimace.

When he had come home and retreated immediately into the bed, he had brushed against the wound as he’d tried to find a comfortable position on the pillow. Three tosses and turns later, he had given up and resigned himself to sleeping on his back instead of his usual side position, so as not to put pressure on the injury. As he’d lain there, he had listened for John, wondering what his boyfriend was thinking about, if he was going to come to bed later, or leave.

Surely he would conclude that the past month had made irreparable damage to their relationship. Surely he would decide Sherlock was not worth the effort. Surely he would leave.

And Sherlock would have to get used to sleeping alone again.

That thought had been the last before he drifted off to sleep, though just as he’d closed his eyes, he had had to swallow back a quiet sob.

Now, he rolled over and pressed his face into the pillow. Judging from the light outside, he had slept through the rest of the previous day and the entire night. Would John even be here still? If Sherlock were the one leaving, he would have done so at night, maybe left a note, but otherwise gotten away clean.

No, he amended. John was decent, and rather chivalrous at times. He would probably say goodbye in person.

It was as if the universe heard these thoughts and moved to taunt him, because at that moment came a knock on the bedroom door.

Sherlock lifted his head, winced when the motion strained his injury, and called out, “Come in.” Best to get this over with.

Because surely John was going to break up with him. His stomach dropped through the mattress onto the floor as the door opened.

John stepped inside, and the sight of him - or rather, the sight of what he held in his hands - made Sherlock’s eyebrows furrow.

He clutched a tray in his hands, a plate, a mug, and small vase containing a single flower atop it. John bit down on his slightly protruding tongue as he balanced everything as he made his way forward. Then, three feet from the bed, he stopped and regarded Sherlock.

“Good morning.” He sounded hesitant.

“Hi,” Sherlock breathed. He flinched at the sound of his voice, all hoarse and croaky. Speaking hurt a bit. Damn Sebastian…

“Here, this is, erm, for you,” John said.

Sherlock sat up, frowning. “... Breakfast?” He turned and eyed the clock; it was half past eight in the morning.

John nodded. “You slept, like, eighteen hours or something.” He shot Sherlock a knowing look. “Have you not been sleeping again?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Not really…”

John sighed. Then, he lifted the tray slightly. “Erm… may I?”

After a brief hesitation, Sherlock inclined his head toward the bed, and John took a seat on the edge and laid the tray across Sherlock’s legs. On it was a scone and a cup of…

“Is this…?” Sherlock lifted the cup to his nose and sniffed. “A mocha?”

“Yeah,” John shifted on the bed, not quite meeting Sherlock’s gaze. “Just the way you like it.”

“Where did you get it?” Sherlock asked. Did John really think this was a worthy consolation prize?

“Actually, I made it.”

Sherlock lifted his eyebrows. “How? Our old coffee maker broke two months ago…”

“You mean you dropped it while carrying all our stuff up the stairs when we moved in,” John corrected, though without any irritation in his voice.

Sherlock bit his lip. He still felt a bit guilty about that; it had been the coffee maker John had had in his old flat, when Sherlock had first met him. Or rather, when he had barged in and stolen his caffeine.

“I thought… the bet…” Sherlock said, changing the subject. “You couldn’t have tea, I couldn’t have chocolate…”

“Oh,” John let out a slightly uncomfortable laugh. “No, whoa, that ended ages ago! I thought I told you. I totally caved a fortnight ago, had a tea at the hospital on my break.”

“You didn’t tell me that,” Sherlock murmured.

John stilled, something like guilt seeping into his countenance. “Oh. Well, I meant to. But… I guess that means you won.”

Sherlock nodded, though the victory was hardly as sweet as he had imagined. He had pictured it happening with kisses and smiles, not an impending end of the relationship.

“I…” John continued. “I actually am kind of bribing you, with all this. I bought one of those machine things… you know, you put the special k-cup gizmo in and it makes coffee or tea or cocoa and all?”

“You… you bought one?” Sherlock froze. That didn’t seem like normal breaking-up behavior.

“Yeah,” John looked sheepish. “And I had a whole speech to go with it-”

“Don’t,” Sherlock cut him off. There was the tone, the one that said _we need to discuss something serious_. He couldn’t bear it; he’d rather John just left.

“Sherlock-”

“Don’t, please, I don’t want to hear it. Just go. You don’t have to officially end things, you don’t have to give me all this to make me feel better. Just get out and move on.” Sherlock bit his lip, hard, trying to stave off his emotional pain with physical discomfort.

“What?” John sounded aghast. “No, Sherlock, hang on. I’m not…” He blew out a breath and settled farther back on the bed, folding his legs under himself so he could face Sherlock. He looked upset. “I’m not breaking up with you.”

Sherlock, having sipped some of his drink at that very moment, choked and coughed. Sputtering, he surfaced and gaped at John.   
“You’re not?”

“No,” John shook his head. “Listen.” He sighed, as if bracing himself, then fixed his eyes on Sherlock’s. “I thought, a lot, yesterday and last night. I barely slept… I think I got like two hours of rest. I’ve been going crazy over you.”

Those words, those inconceivable words, made Sherlock focus, notice, and deduce. Under the sudden scrutiny, John’s fingers moved through his hair, which, Sherlock now noticed, was messy and unkempt as if John had ruffled it several dozen times in the last few hours. There were dark bags under his eyes, too. All in all, this was someone scared and anxious. Over Sherlock.

But Sherlock wasn’t sure what to think. Hadn’t John, less than a day ago, been furious with him?

He looked down, finger tracing around and around the edge of the mug. “I know you’re probably going to reiterate that I should have told you,” he began, feeling a bit of anger seep in with the sadness. Good. It would help him say this. “I know you think this is my fault. But it’s not as if you’ve exactly been the perfect boyfriend lately.”

He lifted his eyes and met John’s as he said the last words.

“I… I know that-” John murmured, brow creased.   
“If you’re going to break up with me, fine, but I hope you know it’ll be as much your fault as mine,” he said, cutting of whatever John’s words were going to be. The more he thought about it, the more upset he was.

“Sherlock, I don’t want to break up with you!” John blurted in a much louder voice than either had been using. Sherlock froze, and his eyes flew open wide.

“What?”

They both froze, staring at one another. Sherlock didn’t understand.

John huffed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I… this…” he gestured wildly at the tray on Sherlock’s lap. “It’s a bribe, but not just for you to listen to me, I mean… I… I had a whole speech planned out,” he moaned. “But I’m starting to think it sounded better in my head.”

“What are you talking about?” Could John be serious? Could he really be fighting for them? For Sherlock? Sherlock had never thought of himself as someone anyone would want to fight for.

“Let me start over,” John said, more gently this time. He took a breath and then launched into speech again. “Sherlock, you didn’t ask for Sebastian to do this. I know I got really angry at you the other day, but… I don’t know, I realized that was wrong. You didn’t want him to threaten you.”

“Still, you were fairly adamant I should have said something to someone,” Sherlock glared.  

But John’s fingers were fiddling with the edge of the sheet, his eyes soft and sad and so apologetic. Sherlock watched, wondering. “I shouldn’t have blamed you. Yeah, you hid what was going on from me, but…” He swallowed. “It’s not like I haven’t been making mistakes too.”

He sat back, and Sherlock followed. “John?”

“You’re right when you say I’ve been a bad boyfriend. I took you for granted, Sherlock,” John murmured. “I left you alone, let my work completely take over my life. I’ve been taking extra shifts, did I ever even tell you that?” He didn’t wait for an answer, seeming to know Sherlock was going to shake his head before he did. “I took so many extra hours there, trying to get as much experience as quickly as I could, I think Dr. Willner was getting sick of me. It was so stupid. I just… I got tunnel vision, which I know isn’t an excuse, but… I don’t know how else to explain it.”

He rose and crossed the room, then came back, every move laced with anxiety. Sherlock had to wonder just how long he’d been pacing, while he waited for Sherlock to wake up.

“I neglected you,” John said softly as he came to a halt at the end of the bed. “And then I yelled at you for not talking to me. It’s not fair, I realized that last night. It’s just not fair to you…”

“I still lied to you,” Sherlock conceded. If John could be brave and say these things, Sherlock could admit this.

John nodded. “A bit, but… I guess I have some things to work on in this relationship to make it good, don’t I?”

Sherlock whipped his head up to stare. “What?”

John stiffened. “What? I mean, unless…” His eyes widened and flashed with fear. “Unless you… don’t want…? Of course, I understand, I mean. I can’t exactly expect you to forgive me. I should just-” He stepped away from the bed, back toward the door.

“No!” Sherlock cried, nearly upending the tray. John jumped, startled, as Sherlock set it aside and scrambled out of bed to stand in front of John.

“I don’t want to break up with you either,” he said, breathless. “I… I want to fix this. I should have told you about Sebastian, and I’m sorry about that, but I was scared and didn’t know what to do. And you left me alone, and that hurt, but I still… I still want you.” It all flooded out in a rush, leaving his chest heaving and his heart aching.

John stared at him, astonished, for several long moments. Then, his face split into the tenderest smile. He reached up and brushed back Sherlock’s curls.

“You mean that?” he breathed, as if he could barely believe it.

“I mean it,” Sherlock whispered.

John stepped closer, reaching for him. Sherlock went into his embrace, feeling a weight lift from his chest. He felt like he could dance. They stood there in silence for several moments, savoring the feel of each other. Sherlock felt his irritation seep away, replaced by soft relief.

“John,” he murmured.

“God, I was so worried I’d lost you,” John said. He hugged Sherlock close, burying his face in the curve Sherlock’s neck. “I am so sorry, Sherlock, I’m so sorry.”

“John-”

“The look on your face, when Sebastian had you. You were so scared. I should have been there to protect you-”

“John,” Sherlock interrupted. He pulled back, though only far enough to look him in the eye. “You _were_ there.”

“You know what I mean,” John said. “I should have been there for you much earlier. I should never have let things get to that point, where you felt like you couldn’t _talk_ to me.”

Sherlock’s heart did a funny thing then, twisting and fluttering in his chest. “It’s okay,” he whispered. And maybe, just maybe, it was. Maybe they would get past this.

John bit his lip, eyes wide with wonder and hope. “You forgive me?”

Sherlock paused. It would be easy, even justified, to say no. All the hurt of the past month still hovered in the background of his mind, reminding him how alone he had felt. But, he thought, things between them had not always been this way; for over a year, John had been amazing, attentive, and caring. They had been happy. And now here John was, fighting for Sherlock against all odds, fighting to do right by Sherlock like he used to.

Was it too much of a leap to hope they could find that happiness again?

So he nodded. “I think I do,” he whispered.

The resultant smile on John’s face spurred him forward. He kissed that smile, pressing forward eagerly. John kissed back, cupping Sherlock’s jaw and running his hand down his back.

They broke apart after just a few seconds, though, and Sherlock grinned breathlessly down at John. “Come to bed,” he murmured.

John raised his eyebrows in surprise. A blush flooded Sherlock’s cheeks.

“That’s not what I meant.” He scrambled back onto the bed, a good excuse to turn away and hide his reddening face. John chuckled and followed, tugging the covers back over them. He rearranged the tray over Sherlock’s legs again and looked pointedly between Sherlock and the scone. Sherlock rolled his eyes but began to eat. He _was_ hungry, now that he thought about it. It had been a day since he’d had any food, after all.

“Better?” John asked, amused, after Sherlock finished the scone in three bites. He nodded back, and felt a leap of pleasure in his gut when John pecked his cheek. He then picked up the cup of coffee and moved the tray to the bedside table. John moved closer, hesitantly, but beamed when Sherlock gestured his permission.

“Could you promise me something?” John asked as he settled into Sherlock’s side.

“Hmm?” Sherlock said, and he smiled when John wrapped an arm around his waist.

“Whenever I’m getting tunnel vision with my work again, because I’m afraid it might happen again, just… remind me you’re there.”

“How?”

John gave a small shrug. “I don’t know…” He seemed to immediately realize the danger of that vague statement, though, for he sat up a bit straighter and looked Sherlock in the eye. “Don’t blow up the kitchen though. Nothing destructive.”

Sherlock smirked. “Honestly John, have you no faith in my ability to use chemistry appropriately?”

John chuckled. “Not really,” he winked. “Just… I don’t know, come up with something other than that. Remind me I have so much more in my life than work.”   
“Oh?” Sherlock teased. He felt more at ease than he had in ages. “What else? I wasn’t aware there was anything to life besides working.”

John turned to him again, and his eyes were serious, intense. “You,” he murmured. “You’re my so much more.”

Sherlock softened. He felt as though his heart, which had been so bruised and battered and stressed lately, was relaxing, bandaging itself with every word he and John exchanged.

“And to think we were both afraid we were going to break up,” he murmured.

John huffed a soft laugh. “I hoped we wouldn’t,” he breathed, lips inches from Sherlock’s. “I’m not done with you, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock giggled, delighted all of a sudden with everything in the world. Wrapped up in the warmth of the bed, the coffee, and John, he felt the pain of the last several weeks fade far away. He tipped his head forward, and John moved close for a kiss. At the last instant, though, Sherlock leaned back and regarded John thoughtfully.

“What?” John pouted, looked denied and disappointed.

“What’s my prize for winning the bet?” Sherlock smirked.

John let out a surprised laugh. “Love, you know that bet was only for a month? You won by, like, almost double.”

“Good,” Sherlock felt his smile shift into something smug. “So what’s my double prize?”

John grinned. “I dunno… Bragging rights?”

“What?” Sherlock exclaimed, but it was impossible to feel truly upset when John Watson laughed beside him. “That’s it? How is that a prize?”

John took a solid minute to recover from his giggling and manage to string together more than a few words. “What do you suggest then, your highness?”

Sherlock shifted closer, looming over John. “I was hoping for something far more substantial than bragging rights,” he said, voice low. He couldn’t help but glance down at John’s lips.

“More substantial?” John’s voice had dropped too, and he was slightly breathless. “Like what?”

Sherlock pretended to think, but he clearly did not fool John, whose bright eyes were sparkling with mirth. “Like this,” he said, and leaned down to capture John’s lips against his own, feeling the laughter and happiness burst into life between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all she wrote! ... For now. I actually have partially written one last installment in this series, which I'm planning on posting right around Christmas! Hope you liked this, and if you want, stick around for the final story! It'll be waaay fluffy, if that's any incentive :) 
> 
> If you've got time, please leave a comment and let me know how you felt about this story. Thank you thank you thank you for reading!


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